UK edition

VOLUME 246 JULY 2024 NUMBER 01

FROM
C O N S E RVAT I O N
TO C U LT U R E ,
HOW THOSE
WHO CAME
FIRST ARE
CHARTING
A NEW
TOMORROW I N D I G E NOU S

FUTURES

S P E C I A L I S S U E
 NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC
FROM the EDITOR
N AT H A N LU M P
ONE OF THE things I love most
about working at National Geo-
graphic is the continual learning.
We spend our days looking into
what is fueling new thinking in a
wide variety of fields. It’s our hope
that by staying on the leading edge,
we in turn will provide you with
stories that provoke thought and
advance your own knowledge.
Globally, Indigenous com-
munities have always produced
forward-looking models of inno-
vation and sustainability, though
these have often been overlooked.
I became more acutely aware of
this soon after I joined National
Geographic in 2022. We already had
plans to publish a story, funded by
the National Geographic Society
and the Climate Pledge, from pho-
tographer Kiliii Yüyan, about the
promising ways Indigenous peo-
ples are leading conservation ini-
tiatives. But the more I immersed
myself, the more I came to under-
stand what Indigenous communi-
ties know: Their creative thinking
extends well beyond conservation,
into everything from language to
film to fashion and art. And the
idea for this special issue was born.
You’ll find three main types of
features here: Five Stewardship
stories, anchored by Yüyan’s pho-
tographs, showcase different ways
JULY
Indigenous communities are pro-
tecting and preserving their envi-
ronment and traditions. Culture
pieces bring to life how they are
driving progress, by leveraging
intergenerational teachings as well
as new technology and tools. And
Voices stories put Indigenous cre-
ators and leaders front and center,
examining how they and others are
advancing our thinking.
A note about the term Indige-
nous. In the issue we’re using the
simplest and broadest definition:
related to the original inhabitants
of a certain geographic location.
There are many things I’m proud
of in this issue, but first among
them is that nearly all the content
was produced by Indigenous con-
tributors, many of them working
with us for the first time. We, like
many publications, have an imper-
fect record of covering Indigenous
cultures, and generally have done
so from an outsider’s view. Bring-
ing more Indigenous perspectives
into National Geographic provides
a new level of richness to the work,
which we believe meaningfully
deepens our collective knowledge
and understanding.
I hope you enjoy the issue.
2024
VOLUME 246 NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC NUMBER 01

CONTENTS

6 IN THEIR VIEW | 18 CONTRIBUTORS

S T E WA R D S H I P
Indigenous peoples protect 80 percent of the world’s biodiversity,
according to the World Bank. These five communities are shaping the future.

22 42 66 120 130
DEFENDERS OF OUR FIRE THE HUNT ‘ THIS IS COFÁN A SACRED
THE REEF Aboriginal In Greenland L A N D. O U R S, JOURNEY
On Palau’s N O T Y O U R S .’
women on the north of the Human, nature,
Hotsarihie, coast of north- Arctic Circle, When the and culture.
a resource east Australia Inughuit have Cofán people Mongolians
management use controlled long pursued saw threats to believe in
program guided burns to “keep narwhals. Now their ancestral sacred connec-
by the Hato- our spirits, soils, they’re pushing territory in tions among
hobei people and vegetation for scientists Ecuador, they these three
deters poachers intact.” Invasive to recognize took radical realms, which is
and maintains plants are held their deep action to repel helping fuel
the health of in check, allow- knowledge illegal intruders the country’s
a vital marine ing new life of the small such as loggers major conserva-
ecosystem. to flourish. whales. and miners. tion efforts.

VO I C E S & C U LT U R E
From music to food to education, Indigenous contributors
explore how they and their communities continue to innovate.

38
E L E VA T I N G
INDIGENOUS
I N N O VA T I O N
U.S. Interior Secre-
tary Deb Haaland
builds relationships
with collaboration.
46 62 88
T H E Q U E C H UA A FA M I LY M E A L MORE THAN WORD S
SOUND Award-winning chef Built on a Māori
Through hip-hop, Sherry Pocknett model, immersive
musicians are shares the recipe language schools
revitalizing this for a tasty fish help people
Indigenous lan- hash influenced worldwide reclaim
guage of the Andes. by her heritage. their culture.

92 96 116 136
ANCIENT PRACTICE, THE CENTER A FUTURE IN R I S I N G STA R S
FUTURE PROMISE OF IT ALL INDIGENOUS ON THE PRAIRIE
Hawaiians are In Nigeria, noncon- HANDS Reservation Dogs
turning to a formist communities How can we sparked a Native
traditional way celebrate creativ- harness technology filmmaking boom
of managing land ity, identity, and for a sustainable in and around
collectively. resilience. tomorrow? Tulsa, Oklahoma.

O N T H E C OV E R “Future Ancestral Technologies: New Myth,” 2021. Learn more on page 6.

Art by CANN UPA HANSKA LUGER Photographed by GABRIEL FERMIN

JULY 2024
M E E T T H E TO P H O N O R S
AWA R D R E C I P I E N T S

Thank you to the nearly 3,600 young changemakers from 87 countries

around the world who submitted creative ideas to the National Geographic
Society that address important issues in their communities and
congratulations to the award recipients.
The Slingshot Challenge is a global program for ages 13-18 that identifies and supports future
problem-solvers, advocates and stewards for the planet. Youth were invited to create a one-minute
video outlining an innovative solution to improving our environment.

 , U.S., Hong Kong México

EVELYN PINOT
Urban Pollinators | Protecting
urban pollinators by cataloging
and restoring native flowering
NOGA GERCSAK, GABRIELLE GERVACIO, SHRADHA BISTA,
plant species.
RIYA ZINGADE, ISHIKA MEEL , PRITHIKA VENKATESH
Mazah: Food Waste Fighting App | Addressing climate change by
developing an app that helps minimize food waste.

Portugal

México

MARTA BERNARDINO
Trovador: Tree Planting Robot |
Protecting nature by improving
reforestation efforts in Portugal’s
mountainous areas.

ULISES YAEL TEXTA PONCE, WILIAM ARTEMIO TEXTA

PONCE, DIANA PAOLA PONCE NAVA, PERLA KARINA
PONCE GÓMEZ, SASHA ENRIQUEZ
Nigeria
Semilla De Esperanza (Seed Of Hope) | Protecting the endangered green
macaw through monitoring, reforestation, and community education.

Learn More About The Award Recipients

SlingshotChallenge.org
Supported by the National Geographic Society
and the Paul G. Allen Family Foundation.
CHIDIEBERE ANIGBOGU
TerraBox | Addressing climate
change through community
education and STEM kits that
empower children to explore clean
energy solutions.
 IN THEIR VIEW

THESE NORTH AMERICAN INDIGENOUS ARTISTS ARE ENVISIONING THE FUTURE

Words by Kate Nelson

“Future Ancestral Technologies: New Myth,” 2021

Based in Glorieta, New Mexico, Luger places an optimistic emphasis on Native

peoples’ proven ability to adapt to a changing world. He delves into speculative
PHOTO: GABRIEL FERMIN FOR CANNUPA HANSKA LUGER

fiction to present a future “where we’re in right relationship with our environment
and our kin.” The work shown here (and on the cover) is part of a series that
uses installation, video, and performance art to tell an ongoing narrative about
combating societal ills. Among these, according to Luger, are capitalism and
colonialism, which manifest as corporeal monsters. Set in an undetermined time,
the video shows heroic “monster slayers” bringing water to a barren landscape.
The desert reciprocates, providing tools for confronting the evil forces.

CANNUPA HANSKA LUGER

M A N D A N , H I D AT S A , A R I K A R A , L A K O TA

JULY PAGE.6 2024

 STAR WALLOWINGBULL
OJ I B W E , A R A PA H O

Drawing inspiration for this painting from the dynamic movements and
gestures of powwow dancers in colorful regalia—as well as the Teton mountains’
Teewinot peak and even Scandinavian floral elements—WallowingBull blends
cultural symbolism and futurism. In this way, the Fargo, North Dakota, resident
reminds viewers that “the traditional and the technological belong together.”

“Teewinot,” 2021, acrylic on canvas

PHOTO: RIK SFERRA, BOCKLEY GALLERY

JULY 2024
JULY
 IN THEIR VIEW

“Echoes From a Near Future,”

2022, large-scale photograph

Monnet—who created both

the featured garments
and the image shown here—
uses fashion photography
tropes to upend stereotypical
depictions of passive
Indigenous women viewed
through a colonial gaze.
Instead, the Montréal-based
artist showcases the elegance,
resilience, and eccentricities
of multiple generations of
women who “demand to be
seen and heard.” She adds:
“The women around me are
not victims. They are
very much part of society
and are building the
world for tomorrow.”

CAROLINE MONNET
ANISHINAABE AND FRENCH

2024
 IN THEIR VIEW

“Spiral Arm Red,” 2023, hand-dyed cochineal wool and cotton yarn

A fourth-generation weaver and a computational craft

professor at the University of California, Santa Barbara, Rosalena
juxtaposes traditional handicraft and emerging technology.
Embracing a “man-machine collaboration,” she uses a
custom Jacquard loom to transform her designs—often
based on images found in nature or the cosmos, like this one
of the Milky Way as captured by the Hubble telescope—from
pixels into threads that she then handweaves. In doing so,
she’s “orienting the viewer into thinking beyond boundaries
and gesturing them toward the infinite.”
PHOTO: RUBEN DIAZ

SARAH ROSALENA
WIXÁRIKA

JULY 2024
Parental
Control
Advised
 IN THEIR VIEW

“In every language there is Land /

En cada lengua hay una Tierra,” 2023, steel sculpture

Made with metal diverted from construction of the U.S.-Mexico

border wall, this installation “protests barriers obstructing
the movement of all life connected to and dependent on land,”
PHOTO: NICHOLAS KNIGHT, PUBLIC ART FUND, NY

says Galanin, who lives in Sitka, Alaska. It first stood in New

York City’s Brooklyn Bridge Park and is set to move elsewhere.
Depending on the angle of approach, the structure is either
passable or impassable—an embodiment of “the experience of
rights and privileges that are unseen to those afforded them
and consistently visible to those excluded.”

NICHOLAS GALANIN
T L I N G I T, U N A N G A X ̂

JULY
 CASEY KOYCZAN
DENE

For this series, Koyczan—based in Winnipeg, Canada—reimagined

Indigenous cultural materials such as beads, porcupine quills, dentalium
shells, and even antlers into mesmerizing humanlike figures walking
in a circle. With his surreal artwork, he urges audiences to contemplate
“who we are, where we come from, and where we are going.”

“Tado
˛etła / Walk in a Circle: BEADWORK v2,” 2023, digital animation (still frame)

2024
Surveillance Safari:
Crowdsourcing an
anti-poaching movement
in South Africa
By Johnny Langenheim

Above: The Black Mambas anti-poaching unit patrols the fence line of the Olifants West Nature Reserve, Greater Kruger,
Limpopo Province looking for signs of incursion. Below: A ranger from anti-poaching unit The Black Mambas records a giraffe
on the move in Olifants West Nature Reserve, Greater Kruger, Limpopo Province in South Africa. Credit: Samsung

A South African all-female anti-poaching

unit uses mobile tech to enlist volunteers
from around the world.

For upwards of three million years, we humans

and our antecedents have used tools to interface
with the natural world around us. The earliest
stone tools were discovered in Africa–a continent
some of the world’s most iconic wild animal
species call home. So it’s relevant and appropriate
that electronics company Samsung is working
alongside conservationists in South Africa, using
technological tools to protect these animals.
 PAID CONTENT FOR SAMSUNG

When South Africa entered the first phase of
COVID-19 lockdowns in 2020, around a million yearly
visitors vanished. “Many local people who worked in
ecotourism lost their jobs, so there was a much higher
risk of informal poaching,” says conservationist and
digital marketing expert Peter Stewart.
This was especially true of the iconic rhinos that
are a particular target for poaching gangs in Kruger
National Park.
Stewart is a partner at Africam, a wildlife media
company that uses live HD streaming cameras to
support conservation education around the world.
He and his team were approached by Samsung with
a possible means of compensating for the crash in
visitor numbers and the commensurate dangers this
posed to wildlife in the park: If people couldn’t come
to Kruger, what if Samsung and Africam could bring
the park to them?
Following the success of the Wildlife Watch pilot,
Samsung, Africam, and the Black Mambas expanded
the program in 2023. Along with the enhanced
capabilities of the latest Galaxy S23 Ultra handsets,
the Galaxy SmartTag2 let the Mambas orient
themselves and provide location markers for things
like camera traps, signs of infraction, or evidence of
animal behaviors in the Balule Nature Reserve, part of
the Greater Kruger Area.
Mobile and AI-enabled technologies are becoming
more crucial to conservation as they provide vital
tools on the ground for ranger units like the Black
Mambas. But they also amplify local issues and
perspectives, giving global audiences the opportunity
not only to learn about these unique ecosystems, but
to play an active part in conserving them, too.

By combining Africam’s live streaming infrastructure

with the latest Samsung Galaxy devices, the partners
could build a global community of virtual rangers who
could, in theory, monitor wildlife around the clock. The
result was Wildlife Watch, which enlisted the all-female
Black Mambas Anti-Poaching Unit of 36 rangers.

Mobile and AI-enabled

technologies are becoming
more crucial to conservation
as they provide vital tools on
the ground for ranger units
like the Black Mambas.

The Mambas were provided with Samsung

smartphones to help them monitor wildlife,
communicate with one another, and document their
day-to-day work. Real-time tracking meant they
didn’t have to rely on radios, and fellow rangers could
respond more swiftly to the presence of poachers.
Wildlife Watch recorded more than seven million
social engagements over a four-month period, and the
Black Mambas were a hit with global audiences.
Above: The Olifants West Nature Reserve, Greater Kruger,
Limpopo Province is home to many iconic African
mammals, including the Big Five – elephants, lions, buffalo,
rhino and leopards. Below: Three Black Mambas rangers
remove wire snares from the Olifants West Nature Reserve,
Greater Kruger, Limpopo Province. Poachers often lay snares
for bushmeat like springbok, but species like rhino can
easily fall foul of the snares. Credit: Samsung

This is paid content. This content does not necessarily reflect the views
of National Geographic or its editorial staff.
 CONTRIBUTORS

N AT I O N A L G E O G R A P H I C E X P L O R E R S
These contributors have received funding from
the National Geographic Society, which is committed to
illuminating and protecting the wonder of our world.

K I L I I I Y Ü YA N
PP. 22, 42, 66, 120, 130

Based in Seattle and of

Hèzhé (Nanai) and
Chinese descent, Yüyan
is a photographer who
focuses on Indigenous
land stewardship,
which he documents in
this issue. An Explorer
since 2021, he chronicled
Indigenous sovereignty
for a 2022 cover story.

PHOTOS (CLOCKWISE FROM TOP): KILIII YÜYAN; REBECCA HALE; YAGAZIE EMEZI; MUSUK NOLTE

V I C TO R Z E A D Í A Z YA G A Z I E E M E Z I K E O LU F OX
P. 46 P. 96 P. 116

A resident of Cusco, Peru,
he reconnects with his
Quechuan roots through
photography and hip-hop.
His projects, such as this
month’s story on the
Quechua rap scene, show
the complexities that
define identity. He’s been
an Explorer since 2019.
Emezi, of Igbo and Tamil
heritage, is based in Lagos,
Nigeria, and has contrib-
uted photography to
National Geographic
and the New York Times.
For this issue, the Explorer
since 2019 focused on
Nigerian creatives reject-
ing colonial gender norms.
A UC San Diego professor
and co-founder of the
Native BioData Consor-
tium, Fox is the first Kānaka
Maoli (Native Hawaiian)
to receive a doctorate
in genome sciences. An
Explorer since 2017, he
wrote about Indigenous
futurism for this issue.

JULY PAGE.18
 GLEB SIOBHAN
R AYG O R O D E T S K Y S I N G L E TO N
PP. 22, 66 P. 42

An ecologist and Singleton is an

author of The Archi- Irukandji storyteller
pelago of Hope, based in Australia.
Raygorodetsky Specializing in
covered conservation cultural land man-
efforts in Greenland agement and Indige-
and Palau this month. nous ethnobotany,
A K WA E K E E M E Z I N OA H L E E
An ally of Indigenous she’s involved in
P. 96 TYPE DESIGN
peoples, he lives educational outreach
in Amiskwacîwâska- on fire and plant
Born in Nigeria and Raised in Window hikan (Edmonton, knowledge, a topic
based in New York, Rock, Arizona, in the Alberta) on Treaty she wrote about
Emezi is an Igbo heart of the Navajo 6 territory. for this issue.
artist and author of Nation, and now
many books, includ- living in Portland,
ing the New York Oregon, Lee special-
Times bestseller The izes in branding for
Death of Vivek Oji. Indigenous-owned R E N ZO A RO N I S U LC A A R O H A AWA R A U
Emezi’s art considers businesses. He has P. 46 P. 88
ritual and Indigenous created typefaces A Quechuan musician Based in Aotearoa
realities, as explored inspired by his Diné and scholar based (New Zealand),
in their interview (Navajo) background, in Lima, Peru, he Awarau is a Māori
with designer one of which is is currently finishing (Ngāti Maru, Ngāti
Adeju Thompson. used in this issue. a book manuscript Porou), Niuean, and
on Indigenous resis- Samoan playwright,
tance to the Shining screenwriter, and
Path insurgency. His journalist. For this
H U G O L U C I TA N T E P. 120
article this month issue, he reported
highlights the revi- on Māori language
Lucitante is Cofán from Ecuador’s Sucumbíos talization of the advocates’ global
Province and a doctoral student in cultural Quechua language impact on Indige-
anthropology. A co-executive director of through music. nous communities.
the Institute for Conservation and Environ-
PHOTOS (CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT): DAVID UZOCHUKWU; RYAN REDCORN; CORY MARTIN

mental Training, he reflected on the Cofán

people’s stand against extractive industries.

K AT E N E L S O N TIM LANDES
PP. 6, 62 P. 136

Based in Minneap- Landes lives in Tulsa,

olis and a member Oklahoma, and is
of the Tlingit tribe, a citizen of the
Nelson is a 2024 40 Cherokee Nation.
Under 40 honoree of A writer and photog-
the National Center rapher whose work
for American Indian has been featured
Enterprise Develop- on 60 Minutes and in K A I ' I L I K A U L U K U K U I P. 92
ment. This month, the Cherokee Phoe- Kaulukukui is a Kānaka Maoli artist based
she profiled notable nix, he covers Native in Hawai‘i. A regular collaborator with the
Indigenous artists arts and culture. For international mural festival Sea Walls: Artists
and a James Beard this issue, he wrote for Oceans, he created an illustration for this
Award–winning chef about Oklahoma’s month that looks at the historical and future
and restaurateur. filmmaking boom. applications of ahupua‘a land divisions.

PAGE.19 2024
 THEIR FUTURE CAN BE
YO U R L E GAC Y
For many of us, creating or updating our will is one of those tasks that always
seems to fall to the bottom of the pile. In fact, the average person takes more
time to plan their vacation than to plan for their future. You owe it to yourself
and your family to be prepared. When you leave a gift to the National Geographic
Society in your will or trust, or by beneficiary designation, you can protect critical
animal species for generations to come.

P L A N N OW. P ROT E C T YO U R L E GAC Y. P R E S E RV E O U R P L A N E T.

Yes! Please send me information on leaving a gift to the Mail to: National Geographic Society
National Geographic Society. Planned Giving Office
1145 17th Street NW
The National Geographic Society has already been Washington, DC 20036-4688
included in my estate plans.
Contact: legacy@ngs.org
I would like to speak to someone about making a gift. (800) 226-4438
Please contact me. natgeo.org/legacy

NAME

ADDRESS

PHONE EMAIL

The National Geographic Society is a 501(c)(3) non-profit organization. Our federal tax ID number is 53-0193519. 24PGAD07INTL
PHOTOGRAPH BY FRANS LANTING
 CONTRIBUTORS

RYA N R E D C O R N ERJEN
P. 38 K H A M A G A N O VA
An Osage filmmaker, P. 130

photographer, and The Buryat Mongol

screenwriter based in elder based in
Oklahoma, RedCorn Mongolia is a
co-founded Indige- founding member
nous comedy troupe of the World Union
the 1491s and was of Indigenous Spiri-
a writer, actor, and tual Practitioners. In
photographer on FX’s Reservation Dogs. her essay and her work, she focuses on the
This issue features his portrait of U.S. connection between Indigenous spiritual
Secretary of the Interior Deb Haaland. practices and environmental stewardship.

K A R I ROW E TA N I A N I WA
P. 62 P. 88

Rowe, who is Oglala Of Māori (Te

Lakota, Turtle Moun- Atiawa, Taranaki,
tain Ojibwe, and Irish Ngāruahinerangi)
European, has over and Scottish
20 years of experi- heritage, Niwa
ence in commercial is based in her
and editorial pho- New Zealand tribal
tography and design. homeland province
Based in Portland, Oregon, she amplifies of Taranaki. For this issue, the photog-
Indigenous stories and businesses, such as rapher spotlighted the successful move-
the work of chef Sherry Pocknett. ment to maintain the Māori language.

T H E B OA R D
For this special issue, the National Geographic staff convened a board of four
Indigenous journalists and creators to assess the editorial direction and practices
that shaped our coverage. The board attended meetings with story leads and
reviewed limited assets, but did not assign or edit content. For transparency
and accountability, the board has produced a report examining the publication’s
work and editorial processes. The report can be viewed at natgeo.com/julyreport.
National Geographic thanks the board members for their time, insight, and work.
ALEXANDR KHAMAGANOV; DOMINIKA ZIELINSKA; KARI ROWE
PHOTOS (CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT): DEJA JONES;

T R I S TA N A H T O N E K AT H L E E N S L E B O D A M AT I K A W I L B U R J O S U É R I VA S
Ahtone is a mem- Sleboda is a Wilbur is a social Rivas is Mexica
ber of the Kiowa n e képmx woman documentarian and Otomi. He’s an
Tribe and editor at of mixed heritage who belongs to Indigenous futurist,
large at Grist. He and a member of the Swinomish and creative director,
previously served the c’eletkwmx Tulalip peoples. visual storyteller,
as editor in chief at (Coldwater) band She is the author and entrepreneur
the Texas Observer of Merritt, British of the New York working at the
and was the first Columbia. She Times bestseller intersection of
Indigenous affairs is a partner in Project 562: Chang- art, technology,
editor at High the image-making ing the Way We See journalism, and
Country News. studio Gluekit. Native America. decolonization.

JULY 2024
 S T E WA R D S H I P

The Hatohobei people’s innovative

protections ensure an atoll’s health
for generations to come.

ASI A
PACI FIC
O CEA N
PALAU

WORDS BY
AUSTRALIA GLEB RAYGORODETSKY

P H OTO G R A P H S BY
KILIII YÜYAN
NGM MAPS

22
An outrigger canoe
in the waters off the
Palauan village of
Echang illustrates the
Hatohobei people’s
fishing and wayfind-
ing traditions.
Blacktip reef sharks
swim in Rock Islands
Southern Lagoon.
An archipelago,
Palau was the first
country to create a
shark haven, in 2009.
Later it established
the Palau National
Marine Sanctuary,
which prohibits
fishing and mining
in most of its waters.
 gestures for the illegal fishermen
to return to their ship and wait for
further instruction. “I was scared,”
Tkel said. “That was my first time
encountering poachers.” She slipped
away and made a call by satellite
phone to the program manager
in Koror, Palau’s largest city. Help
was on the way, but it would take a
couple of days to dispatch a Marine
Law Enforcement boat across the
at the
O N A C L E A R M O R N I N G I N D E C E M B E R 2 0 2 0, 350 miles of open ocean. The rang-
southwestern edge of the Palau archipelago, rangers ers—who are not permitted to board
from the Helen Reef Resource Management Program foreign vessels for their own safety—
were starting their day, tidying up around their station would have to stall the poachers.
and checking spearguns for afternoon fishing, when The fishermen later came back
they heard a motor and soon spotted an unknown with rice, beer, and $20,000 cash,
vessel. This could only mean trouble. They would plus the promise of wiring an addi-
have been notified about a legitimate craft coming to tional $30,000. Split evenly among
Hotsarihie, as Helen Reef is known to the Hatohobei the team, the total bribe amounted to
people, the traditional stewards of the area. a ranger’s annual salary. The poach-
“That boat was coming in with a lot of goods,” ers had assumed their money would
recalled Petra Tkel, a conservation officer—or ranger, work. But for Hercules Emilio, the
as the program staff call themselves—whose mother team’s senior conservation officer,
comes from Hatohobei, an island 40 miles west of rejecting the money was a no-brainer.
the reef. It was part of a small “We understand at the end of the day,
In 2020 rangers Tony fleet of six motorboats from a we’re doing it for our people, for the
Chayam (at left), Chinese vessel poaching sea future generation,” said Emilio, who
Petra Tkel (center), cucumbers that could fetch up grew up on Hatohobei, also called
and Hercules Emilio
refused a $50,000
to $800 a pound in Hong Kong. Tobi Island, when he was young.
bribe and helped When one boat approached
apprehend illegal the rangers’ station on Helen The nonprofit National
fishermen from Island, a sandbar at the north- Geographic Society, working to
China on Hotsarihie, conserve Earth’s resources, helped
a protected reef in ern edge of the reef, the team fund this story and the four additional
southwestern Palau. communicated through hand Stewardship articles in this issue.

26 S T E WA R D S H I P
 PROTECTING PALAU Exclusive economic zone
200 nautical miles from shore; the limit
The Pacific island nation of 22,000 people of a country’s commercial jurisdiction
prioritizes environmental preservation. Palau marine sanctuary limit
The Palau National Marine Sanctuary, fully No-take reserve, fully protected
enforceable since 2020, bans all fishing in
Local waters
80 percent of the country’s waters.
Set aside for Palauan use
Coral reef

Fishing hours, 2020–2023

fewer more I N T E R N A T I O N A L W A T E R S

100 mi
100 km
F E DE R AT E D
Joint patrols S TAT E S O F
With few boats, Palau’s small
marine police force safeguards MICRONESIA
a nearly 230,000-square-mile
expanse with help from the Yap
U.S. Coast Guard. Islands
P h i l i p p i n e S e a

Ngulu
P HI LIPPIN ES PA L AUA N Atoll
Local
waters
C A R O L I N E I S L A N D S
COMMERCIAL
MINDANAO
Babeldaob
FISHING ZONE (Babelthuap) Ngerulmud
Koror
Chelbacheb
(Rock Is.) Beliliou
(Peleliu)
P A L A U

PALAU NATIONAL MARINE SANCTUARY

Sonsorol Is.
184,228
square miles
Pulo Anna Fully protected waters
Talaud
Merir
Islands INTERNATIONAL
WATERS
P A C I F I C O C E A N
Helen Island

Hotsarihie Remote reef

a (Helen Reef)
e Hatohobei Hotsarihie (Helen Reef) is
S (Tobi) protected by a single ranger
Morotai station tasked with identifying
a

illegal fishing boats, often from

c

the Philippines and Indonesia.

c
l u

Halmahera
o
M

Ayu Islands
I N D O N E S I A
Waigeo
H al ma her a
Bacan
Se a Biak
N E W G U I N E A

Obi
 The Chinese poachers brought
their main vessel through the chan-
nel into the sheltered waters of the
reef’s lagoon and sent divers down
to plunder. They kept offering the
money and goods, but the rangers
remained steadfast.
Finally, with air and sea support
from the U.S. Coast Guard, the patrol
boat arrived from Koror on the third
day and blocked the channel, trap-
ping the Chinese vessel inside the
lagoon. Officers boarded the ship
and detained its crew of 28, seizing
cash, motorboats, fishing gear, and
500 pounds of illegally harvested
sea cucumbers.
“I am so proud of our rangers,”
said Rosania Victor, the program’s
manager, in a video about the inci-
dent. “For the sacrifices they made
in manning the remote station away
SOURCES: GLOBAL FISHING WATCH; ALLEN CORAL ATLAS; MARINE PROTECTION ATLAS, MARINE CONSERVATION INSTITUTE
from their families. For their bravery
in intercepting an illegal fishing ves-
sel using their experience and tactics
from their trainings. And for having
the integrity to refuse the bribes.”
Since the Helen Reef Resource
Management Program launched
more than 20 years ago, traditional
Hatohobei stewardship has guided
its safeguarding of the reef. This is
a testament to conservation efforts
across Palau, one of the most pro-
tected and biodiverse places in the
world’s oceans.
“reef of giant
H OT SA R I H I E M E A N S
MAP: MATTHEW W. CHWASTYK, NGM STAFF
clams,” named for the once abundant
Tridacna mollusks that, according
to oral history, grew big enough for
a diver to comfortably nestle inside.
The atoll’s lagoon, channel, and
extensive reef flats host a remark-
able number of hard and soft coral
species that provide underwater
habitat for sea snails, sea cucumbers,
HERCULES EMILIO,
A SENIOR CONSERVATION OFFICER
and large reef fish, such as the humphead wrasse. On
the island, green turtles and thousands of seabirds
build nesting sites.
The intimate relationship the Hatohobei people
have with the land and sea has nurtured an enduring
body of knowledge, practices, and traditions known as
moumou. These include agricultural methods, fishing
techniques, and seafaring traditions that guided the
original Hatohobei navigators from the distant outer
islands of Yap. Hatohobei means “to make stronger
magic and find,” a reminder of how the ancestors set-
tled on the island of Hatohobei after voyaging some
800 miles by sea.
Early generations of Hatohobeians raised a mas-
sive taro patch in the middle of the island to ensure a
reliable food source, which they use to this day. They
developed an array of fishing methods, including
dipnet fishing by torchlight, noosing sharks, fishing
under drifting logs, kite fishing, and trolling. Though
many of these techniques are no longer used, knowl-
edge of them has endured in the Hatohobei community
through two centuries of frequent upheaval.
Starting at the end of the 1800s, Palau’s more than 340
islands, islets, and atolls were claimed, exploited, and
ruled, in succession, by Spain, Germany, Japan, and,
following World War II, the United States. Palau gained
independence in 1994 after several decades of nego-
tiations with the U.S. Under an agreement between
the two countries, Palau receives economic assistance
and access to U.S. federal mail, weather, and aviation
PA L A U 29
The only human
residents on Helen
Island, a narrow
sandbar at the
northern edge of
the atoll, are the
rangers stationed
there to protect its
wildlife. Hotsari-
hie is collectively
owned by the peo-
ple on the nearby
island of Hatohobei.
Today the north-
ern third of the reef
is open for subsis-
tence fishing to
community mem-
bers and rangers
like Brian Fidiiy, who
spearfishes to feed
himself and his col-
leagues. The remain-
ing waters around
the reef are closed
to harvesting.
services, and its citizens can live, work, and study in
the U.S. without a visa. In exchange, the U.S. maintains
military defense authority.
Over the years, foreign occupations, epidem-
ics, storms and erosion, and extraction of natural
resources have forced most of the Hatohobeians to
leave their home island for Koror and beyond. Of the
approximately 200 people of Hatohobei ancestry in
Palau, only about 30 still live on the island year-round.
Most reside in the community of Echang, established
during the German occupation in the early 1900s in
faraway Koror state. Today Hatohobei and Hotsarihie
remain social and cultural bedrocks for the commu-
nity that continues to care for them.
In the 1990s, fishing boats from Indonesia and the
Philippines greedily raided the reef using dynamite,
cyanide, and large nets to harvest sea cucumbers, sea
snails, giant clams, sharks, groupers, and turtles.
With the help of two American scientists, the
community reached out to other Pacific islanders to
learn how they handled overfishing. But first it had
to answer one question: Who owns the reef ? This
prompted a series of public meetings in 1999, attended
by members of all Hatohobei families. After review-
ing and acknowledging family and clan oral histories,
the community agreed that the reef was collectively
owned by the Hatohobei people. “The elder in the
room asked each of the heads of family, ‘What is your
say?’ And they all voiced their yes,” explained Wayne
Andrew, a Hatohobeian and senior director of the
Micronesia program at the conservation nonprofit
OneReef. “We want Helen Reef to be protected.”
The approach is different from landownership on
Hatohobei, which is clan based, passed on matri-
lineally, and often contested. Such an innovative
declaration of collective ownership disentangled
the future of the reef from disputes and made it
possible to manage for the benefit of all Hatohobei-
ans. “Community is not people alone,” said Andrew.
“Community is a place, the reef. The respect of all of
that is so important.”
In 2000 a group of Hatohobeians, other Palauans,
and international groups secured government and
private funding to start the Helen Reef Resource Man-
agement Program, and the following year the Hato-
hobei state legislature passed a law establishing the
reef as a protected area. For the first four years, it was
34 S T E WA R D S H I P
closed to marine-life harvest. As the
reef recovered, approximately 30 per-
cent of the atoll was opened up for
sustainable fishing. “When we have
abundance then the spillover can
supply the community,” explained
Thomas Patris, a former governor of
Hatohobei state who was instrumen-
tal in the creation of the reserve.
Eventually, the program built a
permanent ranger station, trained
and hired Hatohobeians and other
Palauans as conservation officers,
and developed a comprehensive
management plan based on scientific
research and traditional knowledge.
The rangers not only deter illegal
fishing but also monitor turtles and
other wildlife to maintain the resto-
ration and health of the atoll.
Patris remembered visiting the
reef as a small child: “In the evening,
when it’s low tide, the birds come in
from hunting and would fly so low
that the giant clams get excited and
close their shells, squirting water
out.” Years later he took his kids to
witness the phenomenon to no avail.
But now “the resources are coming
back,” he said. “And we want to keep
it that way.”
is
T R A D I T I O N A L S T E WA R D S H I P
about applying the knowledge that
generations of Hatohobeian ances-
tors gained while making the most
of their limited resources. “They
knew the right seasons for fishing,”
Andrew explained. “When there was
a good season, they would sail out
and fish for pelagic fish, like mahi-
mahi, tuna, flying fish, and needle-
fish. When there was a bad season,
with rough seas, they would fish
close to the reef, rotating through
different species important for their
livelihoods.”
 The people of Hatohobei “use their
traditional ecological knowledge in a
supremely thoughtful way,” agreed
Stuart Sandin, a marine biologist
at the University of California, San
Diego. He has led several expedi-
tions to Hotsarihie as part of the
Scripps Institution of Oceanogra-
phy’s research initiative on reef
health across the tropical Pacific.
Sandin pointed to the area’s robust
populations of bumphead parrotfish
and giant groupers, “fish that you
just don’t see in heavily exploited
systems.” Coral regrowth is also
remarkable, according to Sandin. A
series of images taken over time by
his team show the reef’s corals have
grown back “like crazy” after a con-
siderable disturbance, such as a big
wave or a coral-bleaching event. It’s
“another signature that’s consistent
with well-managed systems,” he said.
Initially financed mostly by out-
side sources, the Helen Reef Resource
Management Program is now sup-
ported largely by Palau’s Protected
Areas Network Fund. The indepen-
dent nonprofit organization serves
as a financial trustee for money gen-
erated from “green fees” charged by
the government to anyone who vis-
its the country. This allows for the
employment of eight full-time rang-
ers rotating in and out of Hotsarihie
every three to six months.
Palau’s conservation measures
expanded with the creation of its
national marine sanctuary, which
went into effect in 2020. One of the
largest marine protected areas in
the world, the refuge protects 80
percent of Palau’s waters and more
than 184,000 square miles of the
western Pacific from extractive activ-
ities, including mining and fishing.
The country has some of the highest
WAYNE ANDREW,
MICRONESIA DIRECTOR AT ONEREEF
levels of marine biodiversity in all of Micronesia,
with hundreds of species of hard corals, soft corals,
and sponges; over 1,300 species of reef fish; and sig-
nificant stocks of tuna, billfish, sharks, and rays. The
fund and sanctuary share an ethos rooted in Palau’s
traditional practice of bul: restricting fishing in
certain reef areas and certain times of year to allow
for regeneration.
Now, with the help of U.S.-based environmental
organizations, Palau’s current president has begun
looking at ways to modify the sanctuary’s boundar-
ies to allow for increased revenue from commercial
fishing—a response, in part, to an economic decline
brought on by the COVID-19 pandemic. There is no
doubt, explained Andrew, that a boost in commercial
fishing in Palau would affect marine biodiversity. But
any changes to the national sanctuary’s boundaries
won’t take away Hotsarihie’s protected-area status,
and Andrew affirms that the people of Hatohobei will
continue to look after it.
A few years after the incident with the Chinese
poachers, rangers still occupy their remote sandbar
station. They haven’t faced another international
skirmish yet, but they’re ready for whatever may
come over the horizon.
“What I love about the job is that I’m helping the
community,” said ranger Tkel. “Even when there’s
another job opportunity for me, I’ll stick with
my island.” j
PA L A U 35
Within Palau’s trea-
sure chest of biodi-
versity, Hotsarihie is
a precious jewel. The
atoll’s lagoon, chan-
nel, and reef flats
support an array of
hard and soft corals,
turtles, sea snails,
giant clams, fish,
sharks, and seabirds.
 VOICES
ELEVATING
INDIGENOUS
INNOVATION

U.S. Secretary of the

Interior Deb Haaland
is working to build
a stronger relation-
ship between tribal
WORDS BY nations and the
DEB HAALAND
federal government—
P H OTO G R A P H BY one co-stewardship
RYAN REDCORN agreement at a time.

NDER THE SUN of a chilly hunt—a gesture of respect. I imagined

May afternoon in 2022,
I stood with members of
the Confederated Salish
and Kootenai Tribes
(CSKT) on the Flathead
Indian Reservation in
Montana, part of the
tribes’ ancestral homelands. Tall blades
of prairie grasses rustled in the breeze. A
nearby sign, inscribed with greetings in
Seliš—X . est Sx.lx. alt—and Ksanka—Ki’su’k
kyukyit—welcomed visitors to the Bison
Range. That day was a day for celebration.
Several tribal members lifted their
heads in unison and sang, their voices
filling the air in full-throated swells and
falls. Standing next to me, then CSKT
chairman Tom McDonald listened. Tra-
ditionally, he’d explained, his ancestors
summoned the bison in song before a
their gratitude for Creator ’s gift, the
living beings that for millennia provided
much of what the people needed: food,
clothing, shelter, tools, religious items, and
a sense of belonging to their land.
Of all the losses this continent has suf-
fered, the destruction of the Great Plains
is among the starkest. When the federal
government began its conquest of Indige-
nous peoples, it surmised that the “Indian
problem”—wherein Native communities
lived and thrived on lands sought by
colonial settlers and the federal govern-
ment—could be solved by destroying
Native food sources and livelihoods. And
so, men with guns killed tens of millions of
bison. This set off a chain reaction of eco-
system degradation that, now intertwined
with the present-day climate crisis, spelled
catastrophe for ancestral homelands and

38
Sitting for a portrait,
Secretary Haaland
(Pueblo of Laguna)
is the first Native
American cabinet
secretary and one
of the first Native
American women
in Congress.
the ecosystems we all depend on. For the a simple request to the federal government:
CSKT, this loss was amplified by the federal Return the land, and bring the bison home.
government’s unilateral withdrawal of nearly After an act of Congress in 2020 cleared a path
19,000 acres at the very heart of the Flathead to reverse this injustice, the Department of
Reservation in 1908. the Interior, the federal agency I now lead,
Thankfully, our story doesn’t end there, announced the transfer of the land into the
because bison are resilient, Indigenous peo- tribes’ ownership in June 2021.
ples are still here, and Indigenous innovation The return of the Bison Range to the CSKT
is enduring. is one of more than 200 co-stewardship
The CSKT can rightfully take credit for help- agreements with tribes that the Biden-Harris
ing save the bison from extinction: The herd administration has entered into since Presi-
that grazed those hills on the day of my visit dent Joe Biden stepped into office. Collabora-
descended from the Pablo-Allard herd, one tive land management agreements between
that tribal members tribes and the federal government have
In May 2022, Haa- began in response to emerged in recent decades to varying degrees
land (at right) and the near-total destruc- of success. But the Biden-Harris administra-
Confederated Sal-
tion of the species tion is leveraging co-stewardship—shared
ish and Kootenai
Tribes chairman Tom during the 19th cen- management and decision-making over
McDonald (center) tury. Over the decades certain lands and waters—as a uniquely
commemorate the following the 1908 intentional strategy to preserve ancestral
transfer of the Bison
Range in Montana land withdrawal, the homelands and fulfill our trust and treaty
to the tribal nation. CSKT persisted with responsibilities to tribes.

PHOTO: DEPARTMENT OF THE INTERIOR

40 VOICES
 I am grateful to serve in an administration
that understands our country’s history and
seeks to remedy our past mistakes by elevat-
ing the role of tribes in the management of
our public lands, waters, and wildlife. With
two billion dollars from President Biden’s
Investing in America agenda, we are advanc-
ing landscape-level conservation in partner-
ship with the communities who care for and
depend on these places every day.
Successful co-stewardship ensures that
Indigenous knowledge—a deep under-
standing of the land and wildlife gained over
millennia—is put to use as one of the most
essential strategies to tackle the climate cri-
sis. Implementing this knowledge can take
many forms, from using traditional practices
for wildfire management and ecosystem
restoration to directing habitat and wildlife
conservation. Above all else, this work must
keep tribal voices and the expertise they bring
front and center.
Last October, some 2,600 miles northwest
of the Bison Range, I saw this administration’s
commitment to co-stewardship in action yet
again while visiting Alaska Native communi-
ties. On the gravel banks of the Kenai River, I
watched with tears in my eyes as adult salmon,
having laid their eggs, washed ashore in decay,
their journeys to the sea and back again com-
plete. That day, the smell of death gripped the
air, but so too did the feeling of rebirth. What I
had witnessed was an increasingly rare act of
nature: Across Alaska, fewer and fewer salmon
ever make it upriver to spawn.
Each time I’ve had the honor to visit with
Alaska Native communities as secretary, I
have felt a sense of urgency as the people have
described historic salmon crashes, which
threaten both lifeways and the animal rela-
tives that are foundational to their cultures.
Climate change, among other human-made
threats like habitat loss and deteriorating
infrastructure, jeopardizes the salmon and
Alaska Native peoples’ very existence.
After many meetings with department staff
and Alaska Native community members,
we developed the Gravel to Gravel Keystone
Initiative—one of several grounded by our
Restoration and Resilience Framework,
launched last year. The initiative will advance
projects co-designed and implemented
alongside tribes, including the restoration
of degraded streams, expansion of habitat
assessments, and replenishment of native
vegetation throughout Alaska’s Yukon, Kus-
kokwim, and Norton Sound region—nearly
420,000 square miles.
To progress as a nation, we must heal our
wounds with the love and guidance of those
who were wounded. Touring the Bison Range
that day, I observed these powerful animals
up close, their winter coats sloughing off
thick patches of knotted fur and giving way
to smooth, mottled dark skin. As the bison
claimed their rightful place on the land-
scape, I prayed and thanked the ancestors
who had protected them when times were
the hardest.
At the turn of the 20th century, settlers,
pioneers, and the federal government failed
to recognize what Indigenous peoples have
always known: that our understanding
of and devotion to the land remains con-
stant. Indigenous knowledge is Indigenous
innovation, and the ancestors were the first
innovators. If we are to save ourselves, we
must empower this knowledge with every-
thing we have. j
41
 S T E WA R D S H I P

I have of
T H E E A R L I E S T M E M O RY
Biri Biri, or fire, comes from when I
was six years old. A soft smoky smell
lingers, in from the rain. I’m sitting
on the old couch in an open house
made of corrugated iron sheets and
wood, listening to my babysitter tell
stories. I watch her cook over a bush-
made stove, built from the same iron
and timber as the house—the same
timber I still hear crackling today.
As Indigenous peoples of the Wet
Tropics of Queensland World Heri-
tage site, on the vast coast of north-
Like Aboriginal women east Australia, we practice cultural
before her, Siobhan fire management to keep our spir-
Singleton helps manage its, soils, and vegetation intact. It
controlled burns—small, is living knowledge, a relationship
that we practice on Country; we
cool fires that spare the
walk and observe the changes with
canopy—to shape the land. our old people and youth. Biri Biri
is our medicine for both Bulmba,
our homelands, and Gulbul, our sea
Country. It cleanses one’s spirit when
we walk and practice fire. We yarn
about the different arrangements in
PA C I F I C plants—structures from leaf layers
O CE A N
to grass connectivity through to the
root systems, soils, and Country
IAN WET TROPICS
INDEAN OF QUEENSLAND types. We read Country and align the
O C
AUSTRALIA indicators from the soil to the sky, to
tell us the right timing.
Walls were never meant to sepa-
rate us from our original home. As
an Irukandji woman and knowledge
holder, I face challenges not only with
climate change, as we experience rap-
idly changing conditions and major
NGM MAPS

WORDS BY
SIOBHAN SINGLETON
weather events, but also with the Aus-
tralian government, which remains
P H OTO G R A P H S BY
KILIII YÜYAN

42
Guided by traditional
knowledge, Djabugay
Bulmba Rangers (from
left to right) Dameon
Hunter, Nyuwarri Gilker-
son, Levi Newbury, and
Gavin Donahue oversee
a cultural burn within
the open forests of the
Wet Tropics. The ranger
program is working to
reclaim the practice for
Indigenous Australians.
slow to acknowledge and accept our land and cultural always speak to our ancestors. You
rights. Being a woman in the fire space brings chal- learn to listen to the sounds of Coun-
lenges from all directions. I am told by men within our try and our old people, hearing
communities that women do not belong among Biri their experiences and how things
Biri, that traditionally we never practiced the burns. have changed in their time. Elders
We have always had a role and relationship with teach me to keep the knowledge
Biri Biri. The women have great knowledge of plants. and connection alive for the next
Knowing how and when to gather them is like know- generation. And if we are to keep
ing how to weave them into the baskets we use to the knowledge living on in our kin,
collect foods—it is a story in itself. For many gen- we will need patience, just as we will
erations Biri Biri has been a need patience to keep our cultural
Adjacent to Kuranda part of everyday living for us. I practices alive. It’s just like seeing a
National Park, on remember being with the Aun- plant for the first time and learning
Djabugay home- ties, sitting on Country by the all you can about it, connecting with
lands within the
biodiverse Wet
beach as we waited for the food it, knowing its texture and smell.
Tropics, cultural fire to cook on Biri Biri. After a day This I have learned from my Elders,
is used to keep rain- gathering food, we sat close to and this I will carry on. j
forest growth and Biri Biri for warmth while the
invasive plants in Read more about Aboriginal
check, clearing the wind wrapped around us. rangers and cultural fire
way for new life. When visiting Country, we at natgeo.com/culturalfire.

44 S T E WA R D S H I P
Culturally important species of all kinds, such as (clockwise from top left) cassowaries, carpet
pythons, Kuranda tree frogs, and golden orb-weaving spiders, have adapted to help reseed and
restore the forest floor in the wake of a cultural burn.

AUSTRALIA 45
 C U LT U R E

P E RU
Young Indigenous
musicians have
transformed hip-hop
into an expression
of their language
and culture.

WO R D S B Y
RENZO ARONI SULCA

P H OTO G R A P H S BY
VICTOR ZEA DÍAZ

THE
QUECHUA
SOUND
46
CUSCO
Javier Cruz, better
known as Sara
Kutay, fuses spiritual
tunes and Andean
instruments with
hip-hop beats. His
rap name means
“grind corn.” As a
child, he used to
grind grains to help
his parents.
LIMA
Renata Flores
became famous in
Peru for Quechua
covers of songs by
Michael Jackson and
Alicia Keys. Now she
performs her own
music at big venues
like the Parque
de la Exposición
amphitheater.

a city near the banks of Lake Titicaca in the high plains
of southern Peru. Thousands of Indigenous Quechuan
and Aymara people have gathered in the town’s main
square to commemorate the massacre of 18 political pro-
testers and bystanders by government security forces
one year ago. Among them is a man on a black horse,
decked out in a black jacket, a broad-brimmed black
hat, and mid-calf black-and-gold boots. He’s dressed
to evoke the country’s most iconic revolutionary figure:
Túpac Amaru II, the Indigenous cacique, or chief, who
led a rebellion against the Spanish Empire and became
a symbol for resistance in the Andes. The man is known
as Cay Sur—kay (Quechua) plus sur (Spanish) means
“This South”—and he’s there to express solidarity with
the victims. He’s also there to rap.
From horseback, Cay Sur performs his song
“Próceres” (“Heroes”), its hip-hop beat pulsing
through the crowd. Many recognize him from
YouTube—and identify with his lyrics. “Manan
wañuchispachu llaqtayta atipanki,” he shouts in Que-
chua. “By killing, you will not defeat my people.”
At 20, Cay Sur, whose name is Yerson Randy Huanco
Canaza, is among a growing
L A M AY, C U S C O generation of young musi-
In addition to being cians making hip-hop with a
a hip-hop artist,
Jojhan Barrientos
specifically Indigenous voice.
Huallpa—aka Rumi Like many of them, he draws
Maki, or Hand of from multiple cultures and
Stone—plays an traditions—Spanish and Que-
Andean flute in
rituals and healing chua speaking, global and local,
ceremonies. ancient and modern. And with
50 C U LT U R E
his fellow artists, he’s creating some-
thing entirely new: a soundtrack for
Indigenous youth eager to reclaim
their Andean roots and language.
Embracing Quechua so publicly
would once have been unthinkable
in Peru. Although some eight million
to 10 million people speak the lan-
guage in the Andean countries and
beyond—and 26 percent of Peru’s
population identifies as Indigenous—
many native Quechua speakers have
felt ashamed of our language and
traditions because of ongoing racism.
Mainstream Peruvian culture tends
to romanticize Inca civilization while
denigrating its living descendants as
backward, especially when they try to
assert their political rights. Since the
mid-20th century, many Quechuan
migrants to the cities have identified
as mestizo, or mixed race, rather than
Indigenous. Often they didn’t teach
Quechua to their children. During
the 1980-2000 conflict between the
Maoist Shining Path and the Peruvian
government, some 70,000 people
were killed and more than half a mil-
lion displaced. Most of them were
rural, poor, and Quechua speaking—
the targets of both sides.
Inspired partly by Uchpa, or Ashes,
a Quechua-singing blues rock band
formed in the early 1990s amid the
violence in Ayacucho, the epicenter
of the conflict, Andean young people
are reclaiming their heritage. Already
connected to the wider world through
diasporic networks and social media,
they’re reimagining what it’s like to
be modern and Indigenous. Hip-hop,
with its oral tradition, communal
The nonprofit National
Geographic Society, working to
conserve Earth’s resources, helped
fund this article.
CUSCO
Eduardo Kusunoki,
or Untérmino, co-
founded Hanpiq
Rimay (Healing by
Speaking), which
shares the Quechuan
culture, identity, and
language with kids
at hip-hop work-
shops in rural and
urban areas of the
Cusco region.
 CAY SUR, RAPPER

Translated from Quechua:

‘I will tell you in the Quechua language /
By killing, you will not defeat my people.’

spirit, and culture of resistance, is a natural vehicle for

reviving the Quechua language and Andean culture.
Renata Flores, one of Quechua rap’s biggest stars,
says it’s as if “our ancestors had come up with ways
to express their feelings similar to what freestyle rap
is today.” She’s thinking especially of harawi, pre-
Columbian music poetry traditionally sung in a high
nasal pitch without instruments that voices the soul of
runakuna, the Andean people. The 23-year-old, wearing
round glasses, wide-legged jeans, and a fleece jacket,
told me her music, which mixes hip-hop and electronic
effects with Andean instruments, serves the same pur-
pose as harawi, chronicling the daily life of our people.
The new genre also incorporates Andean spir-
itual practices. In the song “Fiestapaq” (“For the
Party”), Luis Loayza Ramos, 24—aka WariWillka, or
Wari’s grandson—asks permission from the Apu,
a mountain deity with a living spirit, to initiate the
chaku or chaccu ritual, during which wild vicuñas
are rounded up and sheared. “Apukunawan parlamuni Andean women at the center of
/ Kokachayta akuykuspa,” he sings. “I talk to the Apu / Peru’s history. At a smaller concert
Chewing my coca leaf.” called Illapachay (Lightning Day,
And then there’s an effort by some rappers to derived from Illapa, the Inca deity
open the historically male- of lightning), in downtown Cusco,
J U L I AC A , P U N O dominated genre to every- Celinda Enríquez, 27, rapped:
Rapping at a com- one—a challenge to both “Mana yachanichu ñuqa imacha
memoration for
Quechuan and hip-hop cul- kani warmichu qarichu / Ñuqaqa
protesters killed last
year, Cay Sur evokes ture. At a 50th- anniversary kani kusisqa, kawsayta, kawsayta
the historic Indige- celebration of hip-hop in munani,” from her song “Marim-
nous leader Túpac Ayacucho, Flores performed achata” (“Tomboy”). “I don’t know
Amaru II, whose
image he wears songs from her 2021 album if I’m a man or a woman / I’m happy,
around his neck. Isqun (Nine), which places I want to, I want to live.” Afterward I

54 C U LT U R E
 DISTRIBUTION OF
QUECHUA LANGUAGES
NGM MAPS. SOURCE: PAUL HEGGARTY, MAX PLANCK
heard from men in the crowd surprised by how much
they enjoyed Enríquez’s energetic beats. That’s Que-
chua rap: a genre that balances at the place where

COLOMBIA
INSTITUTE FOR EVOLUTIONARY ANTHROPOLOGY

language and culture and past and present meet.

ECUADOR
S OUT H After his performance in Juliaca, Cay Sur cries, “The
PERU Cusco
bloodshed will never be forgotten!” The crowd roars
Lima A M E R I C A
Vilcashuamán back to him, greeting him with hugs and handshakes
ca BOLIVIA
Julia when he dismounts from his horse. His music—in a
traditional language, with a modern rhythm—has res-
400 mi
ARGENTINA 400 km
onated deeply. And no wonder. Hip-hop, he says, is a
“way of thinking and living Quechua.” j

Hear some of the musicians at natgeo.com/quechuarap.

PERU 55
CUSCO
One of the city’s
best known rappers,
Sara Kutay has
been performing
for about 15 years.
Recently he’s
shifted his focus
to the spirituality
embedded in
Andean music.
 MALA, LIMA B RO N X , N E W YO R K H UA N TA , AYAC U C H O
Born in the highland Pictured with her par- Flores (bottom, in green
region of Huánuco, Cris- ents at Orchard Beach, skirt) sits with her mother
tian Espinoza Sánchez Bobby Sánchez (top, and grandmothers
(left) has spent the past center), a Peruvian beside Occochaca water-
few years in Mala pro- American transgender fall. Her grandmothers
ducing hip-hop singles in and two-spirit poet and taught the rapper
Quechua under the name rapper, writes songs like Quechua, inspiring her
El Indio and using rap to “Quechua 101 Land Back commitment to promote
teach the language to Please” to connect with the language through
neighborhood children. her Andean ancestry. global hip-hop music.

PERU 59
V I LC A S H UA M Á N ,
AYAC U C H O
At the Ushnu, a
pyramid where the
Inca oversaw reli-
gious and military
ceremonies, Flores
films a video for her
song “Niña de la
Luna” (“Moon Girl”),
about a messenger
who falls for the
ruler’s son.
 C U LT U R E

A S H P E E WA M PA N OAG

A FAMILY
chef Sherry Pock-
nett made history

MEAL last year as the first

Indigenous woman
to win a James Beard
Award, which recog-
nizes exceptional
culinary talent in the United States. At her
restaurant, Sly Fox Den Too, in Charles-
town, Rhode Island, she honors her North-
east Woodlands roots and her family’s rich
cooking traditions. The establishment spe-
RHODE ISLAND

W O R D S B Y KATE NELSON
cializes in American classics with unique
P H O T O G R A P H S B Y KARI ROWE
twists reflecting Pocknett’s heritage, such as
quahog “chowdah,” three-sisters succotash
(corn, beans, and squash), and sandwiches
served on her locally famous fry bread.
James Beard Award
With her creations, Pocknett—who has
winner Sherry
recently been battling breast cancer—
Pocknett shares
emphasizes healthful ingredients, such
a fish hash recipe
as sustainably raised and hunted meats
with Northeast
and fresh produce (much of it grown
Woodlands roots.
in her family’s own gardens), prepared
using time-tested methods to preserve
nutrients. Like many of her fellow Native
American chefs and restaurateurs, she
believes this traditional fare acts as a
medicine of sorts, nourishing not only the
body but also the mind and spirit.
Her dishes pay homage to family meals
she savored growing up, like a fish hash that
minimizes waste by using leftover pota-
toes from last night’s dinner. “Throughout
my childhood, my mom cooked what-
ever my dad brought in the door,” she
says, “whether it was from the ocean, the
woods, or our four-acre farm.” Here Pock-
nett shares this popular dish, which has a
permanent spot on the specials board and
showcases her tribe’s diverse foodways.

At her Rhode Island restaurant, chef

Sherry Pocknett is carrying on the culinary
traditions of her Mashpee Wampanoag
ancestors, including fishing, foraging,
and using regional ingredients.

62
 B

A. HASH B. FISH C. EGGS D. C O R N C A K E S

Pocknett’s mom Reflecting the impor- When she was Pocknett’s take on
always prepared tance of seafood in growing up, Pock- journeycakes—named
extra food for dinner Wampanoag culinary nett regularly for their ease on long
in case a relative practices, Pocknett enjoyed farm- expeditions—reflects
stopped by, and any learned to fish at fresh eggs, which the region’s abun-
leftovers were used three. She gifts her she was responsible dance, combining
for a hash—similar grandkids their for collecting corn, cranberries, and
to this one—the first fishing pole at from the family’s scallions for a sweet
next morning. the same age. chicken coop. yet savory delight.

64 C U LT U R E
 Morning Fish Hash With Poached Eggs
and Corn Cakes With Strawberry-Cranberry Chutney
COOK TIME:
ABOUT 60 MINUTES
M A K E S 4 S E RV I N G S
INGREDIENTS
MORNING FISH HASH WITH
P OAC H E D E G G S
1½ lb bluefish, striped bass,
mackerel, or salmon
6 Yukon gold potatoes, medium
diced and cooked
1 large onion, diced
2 Tbsp butter
8 eggs
1 Tbsp white vinegar
1 green onion, thinly diced
To taste:
salt
pepper
garlic powder
olive oil
CORN CAKES
2 cups yellow cornmeal
1 cup flour
1 Tbsp baking powder
1 tsp salt
½ tsp pepper
1 8.75-oz can corn, including liquid
1 bunch green onions, thinly diced
½ cup dry cranberries
2 cups water
S T R AW B E R RY- C R A N B E R RY
CHUTNEY
2 lbwhole cranberries,
fresh or frozen
2 lb fresh strawberries, sliced
2 cups sugar
juice of 1 lemon
1 For the fish: Preheat oven to 400°F.
Season fish with salt, pepper, and
garlic powder to taste, and bake for
15 minutes. Set aside.
2 For the chutney: In a large sauce-
pan, combine all ingredients and
cook over high heat for 10 minutes,
until berries break down and sugar is
melted. Reduce heat and simmer for
20 minutes, stirring continuously. It
should start to smell like a June straw-
berry harvest. Place in a bowl and
refrigerate to cool. It can be made
ahead and stored in the refrigerator
for two to three weeks.
3 For the hash: In a 12-inch frying
pan or skillet over medium heat,
sauté cooked potatoes and onion in
olive oil, salt, and pepper until they
are golden brown and have a crisp
on them. Add fish ( juices and all)
and butter for extra-rich flavor, then
break up the fish with a spatula.
Cook until hot and crispy, adding
salt and pepper to taste.
4 For the corn cakes: In a large
mixing bowl, combine all ingredients
except water. Add 1 cup water, mix,
then slowly add remaining cup water.
Mix until batter is thick. Fry about
¼ cup of batter like a pancake in a
lightly oiled cast-iron skillet over
medium heat until golden brown,
two to three minutes a side.
5 For the poached eggs: Fill a small
frying pan with water and place over
high heat. Bring water to a boil, add
vinegar, then give liquid a swirl.
Meanwhile, crack eggs into a separate
small dish to ensure yolks don’t break.
Carefully slide eggs into water and
cook until whites are set, two to three
minutes as you prefer. Using a slotted
spoon, remove eggs from water.
6 To serve: Place a generous portion
of the hash onto plates, top each
helping with two poached eggs, and
garnish with green onions. Add a side
of corn cakes and chutney. Enjoy. j
RHODE ISLAND 65
66 S T E WA R D S H I P
Sheets, or pans, of
sea ice—some larger
than a soccer field—
drift on Inglefield
Bredning, a fjord
near Qaanaaq,
Greenland. About
700 Inughuit, a
group of Inuktun-
speaking Inuit, live
in the town and
smaller settlements
halfway between
the Arctic Circle
and the North Pole.
 S T E WA R D S H I P

WORDS BY
GLEB RAYGORODETSKY

P H OTO G R A P H S BY
KILIII YÜYAN

For generations, the

Inughuit people have
A RCT
observed narwhals and OCEA C
N
I

pursued them through

Greenland’s icy waters.
NO ER
AM

They believe it’s time RT

H GREENLAND
IC
that scientists and A

government officials ATLANTIC

paid more attention to O CE A N

Indigenous knowledge.
NGM MAPS

69
The waters off
Qaanaaq are home
to the Inglefield
stock of narwhals
from spring to late
summer. Inughuit
travel by dogsled to
the ice edge, where
they hunt from kay-
aks. Qumangaapik
Kvist, at left, and
National Geographic
Explorer Ulannaq
Ingemann pause to
help a dog that has
fallen into a crack
in the spring ice.

away from the ice edge and onto the open water in pur-
suit of a narwhal. The 35-year-old Inughuit hunter and
his companions had traveled to the spring ice edge last
year—half a day by dogsled from Qaanaaq, Greenland.
About 750 miles north of the Arctic Circle, it is one of
the northernmost towns in the world. The muffled puff
of a whale’s breath escaped the glassy waters near the
western end of Qeqertarsuaq, or Herbert Island. The
narwhal paused at the surface—seemingly offering
itself to the hunter, as some Inughuit might say.
In a single sweep of his right hand, Qillaq unteth-
ered his harpoon and hurled it into the dapple-gray
smudge of the narwhal’s back. Splashing its tail, the
whale dived. But the harpoon, its toggle head firmly
lodged in the narwhal’s body, was tied to a buoy of
inflated sealskin, making it difficult for the wounded
animal to escape. Qillaq raised his paddle above his
head in celebration.
His companions quickly joined him in their kayaks
and caught up with the injured whale, striking it with
a second harpoon, then killing it with a rifle shot. They
towed the narwhal, tailfirst, to a cleared spot near their
camp and pulled it from the water. Knives were out as
soon as the whale was hauled onto the ice. The hunt-
ers savored deliciously nutty mattak, what Inughuit
call the narwhal’s skin and underlying layer of fat,
loaded with vitamins and minerals. “I am not inter-
ested in European food. I want to eat my own food
72 S T E WA R D S H I P
from the sea, like our ancestors,” said
Qillaq through a translator.
To Inughuit, the narwhal hunt is an
integral part of living and thriving on
their ancestral territory around Pik-
ialasorsuaq, an open-water region
north of the Arctic Circle that in
midsummer can cover more than
30,000 square miles. The North Water
Polynya, as it’s also called, is an over-
MAP: CHRISTINE FELLENZ, NGM STAFF. RESEARCH: MICHAEL FRY. SOURCES: SAKIKO DAORANA; DANISH METEOROLOGICAL INSTITUTE; NSIDC GREENLAND ICE MAPPING PROJECT; IUCN;
wintering ground for narwhals, belu-
gas, walruses, and bowhead whales.
Its waters teem with Greenland hal-
ibut, arctic cod, and other fish, and its
rocky shores provide nesting habitat
for tens of millions of little auks. It
is an irreplaceable source of physi-
cal and spiritual nourishment for
Inughuit, who for centuries relied on
wildlife around their homeland that
once included hunting grounds—
known to Inughuit as Umimmat-
tooq—on Canada’s Ellesmere Island.
“There were many rituals among
my people,” said Hivshu R.E. Peary,
a keeper of Inughuit heritage. These
were rituals forbidden by mission-
aries and mostly lost. “Every animal
was believed to be our ancestor that
would come and feed us with its own
body. This is why in our language
we call the food inumineq, or a for-
mer human being. This means that R.G. HANSEN AND OTHERS, FRONTIERS IN MARINE SCIENCE, JANUARY 2024
we eat our ancestors and get power
through our ancestors, whose blood
runs through our body.”
Inughuit’s narwhal hunting prac-
tices are rooted in traditions of car-
ing for the animals they depend on.
To prevent needlessly harassing the
whales inside the fjord where they
calve and begin nursing their young
in the summer, the hunters restrict
the use of motorboats, instead
choosing stealthier kayaks. To avoid
losing narwhals that sink quickly
when shot, the hunters harpoon
 79°N

ON THE ICE’S EDGE Sea ice conditions, late spring 2023

In Qaanaaq, one of the world’s northernmost towns, Fast ice: solid and fastened to land
and nearby settlements, a community of Inuit called
Inughuit have traditionally hunted narwhals along the Drift ice: dense, scattered, and
fringes of sea ice. But they say that hunting quotas and open ice that drifts with currents
rising temperatures are threatening their way of life. Pikialasorsuaq (North Water Polynya):
open water surrounded by ice

Narwhal summer distribution,

Kangerlussuaq (Inglefield Bredning) By mid-August,
Fewer More all fast ice has
broken up in
the fjord.
K A L A A L L I T N U N A A T
G R E E N L A N D Mid-July

Qeqertat
q
ua r)
l lers nde Bow
U lexa ay do
gB in
.

A
ord n

Fd

(C. a
Fj er tso

nt
Son Siorapaluk Academy

Fd
ick

Piulip q
78°N u a g)
Bay

.
b

rm
Ro

Nu n a a n
s s ni
Co

ge
q
l u red
ac

Kan r B
M

Qaanaaq g ei e l d
Mu rc hi so n n
S o und a lef
10 mi K ng
I
Mid-May
N
(

10 km
Spring thaw rd
Limit of fast ice, Qeqertarsuaq Mid-June k Fjo
(Herbert I.) Olri
mid-April
Hunt location Summer in the fjord
Ulussat
Narwhals move into Kangerlus-
suaq as ice recedes throughout
Kiatak
(Northumberland I.) q summer. Hunters quietly pursue
a in kayaks and use harpoons to
s u d) Cape
e r s u n Powlett S catch the small whales that will
Moving with the ice I k val t e
ay e n provide income and feed their
Narwhals spend winter in (H arden B s b families and sled dogs.
B y
deep, frigid waters. By May, L a n
ice off the coast is breaking d
Fjord

up and they swim toward

land. Inughuit use dogsleds Kangaarsussuaq rd
Fjo
nville

to reach the ice’s edge (Cape Parry) e

olm
when daylight returns and 77°N Moriusaq o lstenh
Gra

the months-long hunting W

Uummannaq
season begins.
Pituffik Space Base
75°W Saunders I.
(Thule Air Base)
(U.S.)
ASI Bylot
A Sound
Cape Atho
ll
Range of narwhal Wolstenholme I.
(Monodon monoceros)
ALASKA North Pole
(U.S.) ARCTIC OCEAN

I.
mere re
es
Ell
Qaanaaq MAP AREA
en e a
S
la

N OR TH B A F F I N
nd

AM E R I CA Baffin KALAALLIT
NUNAAT EU R O P E 76°N
Bay Scoresby
(GREENLAND) Sound
C A N A D A (DENMARK)
DENMARK B A Y
E
ARCTIC CIRCL
70°W
Nuuk
E AN
OC
C
ATLANTI
Qaanaaq was
settled in 1953 after
the Danish gov-
ernment moved
Inughuit families
some 60 miles north
from their longtime
home. By tradition,
colonial-style build-
ings in Greenland
are painted one of
a handful of colors,
each hue communi-
cating the structure’s
function.
them first. To ensure that not a single part of the har-
vested animal is wasted, respected Inughuit hunters
share their catch with everyone involved in the hunt
and, when possible, their community.
But these practices are under threat, say many
Inughuit hunters. “Narwhal hunting culture is dis-
appearing … because of the quota system,” explained
Hivshu’s son, Aleqatsiaq, a hunter and musician from
Qaanaaq. “The quota is so small that the hunters have
to keep everything to themselves, instead of sharing,
because they need to make money.”

INUGHUIT SPEAK Inuktun and, while Inuit them-

selves, they identify as culturally distinct from the
Kalaallisut-speaking Greenlandic Inuit majority.
Despite their linguistic, historical, and cultural dif-
ferences, Inughuit are not recognized as a sovereign
Indigenous people by either Denmark or Greenland.
About 700 Inughuit live in Qaanaaq and a handful
of smaller settlements around Inglefield Bredning,
a fjord also known as Kangerlussuaq. Qaanaaq was
permanently settled in 1953 when the colonial Danish
government relocated Inughuit families more than
60 miles north from their longtime settlement of Uum-
mannaq, to make room for an expansion of America’s
new Thule Air Base, now Pituffik Space Base.
This forced move displaced the community from
some of their traditional hunting grounds. Yet Qaa-
naaq had a comparative advantage—from spring to late
summer it was rich in narwhals, or qilalukkat as many
locals call them. The enigmatic Monodon monoceros—
Latin for “one tooth, one horn”—is recognized for its
long tusk, or tooth, spiraling counterclockwise from
the upper left jaw and reaching up to nine feet in
length. These small whales can weigh nearly two tons
and measure almost 18 feet long without their tusks. prohibited the export of narwhal
Today most of the world’s narwhals—by recent tusks since 2006, domestic trade
scientific estimates, numbers of mattak and tusks is permitted.
Mikile Kristiansen
works as a spotter exceed 100,000—are found Greenland’s Minister of Fisheries
during a hunt off in coastal waters off northern and Hunting annually sets how many
the coast of Qeqer- Canada and Greenland, and narwhals vocational hunters can
tarssuaq, or Herbert
Island. For genera-
are managed as distinct stocks. harvest in a specific region. In decid-
tions, Inughuit have Since 2017, the narwhal has ing the hunting quota for Qaanaaq,
used kayaks, largely been listed as a species of least the minister seeks to balance the
to avoid disturbing concern by the International scientific recommendations of the
narwhals where they
breed, calve, and Union for Conservation of Canada/Greenland Joint Commission
nurse their young. Nature. While Greenland has on Conservation and Management

76 S T E WA R D S H I P
of Narwhal and Beluga (JCNB)—
informed in part by population esti-
mates from the Greenland Institute of
Natural Resources—with input from
members of Greenland’s Fishermen
and Hunters Association (KNAPK).
The institute’s current estimate
for the Inglefield stock is between
2,000 and 6,000 narwhals, a range
based on aerial surveys conducted
in 2007 and 2019. (It accounts for
animals not visible from the surface
based on movement data from a single narwhal fitted
with a satellite tag.) For 2024, the JCNB recommended
reducing the quota from 84 to about 50 narwhals. After
taking hunters’ concerns into account, however, the
minister left the quota at 84.
For generations, Inughuit’s relationship with nar-
whals has been based on real-world empirical evidence
accumulated from regular observations of the whales’
behavior during the year, while the institute’s scientists
are constrained by competing priorities, their budget,
and time. They are based in Nuuk, Greenland’s capital,
and travel to Qaanaaq can take two days.
GREENLAND 77
After an unsuccess-
ful seal hunt, Kvist
smokes on his sled.
Because much of
what hunters catch
or kill is used to
feed teams of more
than a dozen dogs,
seals—abundant
and available year-
round—are highly
valued prey.
 Many hunters feel excluded from the institute’s
narwhal counting process and don’t trust its pop-
ulation estimates. “The scientists don’t want us to
participate in their research,” said Jens Danielsen, a
local hunter for most of his 65 years, through a trans-
lator. “They don’t know the animals that they are
trying to count.”
Some hunters call for increasing or completely aban-
doning government-imposed limits. Inughuit want to
steward their homeland themselves. “We live together
with the animals we hunt, year around,” said Qillaq.
“The biologists who count these animals need to come
and spend time with the hunters to learn from us.”
Hunters must earn at least half their annual income
from hunting to be eligible for vocational hunter status,
qualifying them for government-issued permits to pur-
sue narwhals and other wildlife. In a 2021 letter to the
journal Science, the institute’s scientists described
the domestic narwhal market as a commercial enter-
prise—rather than a subsistence harvest—noting that
an average narwhal’s mattak had a market value of
about $10,000 in 2020. “The narwhal is by far the most
valuable hunting product in Greenland,” the institute’s
Mads Peter Heide-Jørgensen, a scientist who’s studied
narwhal populations for more than 30 years, recently
wrote via email. “And the hunters depend heavily on
the income from that resource. Of course, that also
affects their perception of the status of the resource.”
The institute’s job, he explained, is to generate the
best scientific advice based on internationally accepted
methods, not to co-manage stocks. “This doesn’t pre-
clude developing methods for estimating status of the
stocks together with local hunters,” he wrote, pointing
to the institute’s last hiring of hunters in 2015 to help
collect scientific data and participate in interviews.
But, he noted, stock estimation of marine mammals
requires “knowledge about population dynamics
which is only fully understood by a few professional
assessment scientists.” A survey conducted around
Qaanaaq in 2022 is still being analyzed, and the next
one is planned for 2030 or later.
Globally, there are many examples of how Indige-
nous knowledge enriches scientific understanding
of nature in general and whale counts in particular.
In Alaska the International Whaling Commission
banned the bowhead whale harvest in 1977, eroding the
Alaska Inuit’s traditional way of life. U.S. researchers
80 S T E WA R D S H I P
soon partnered with Alaska Inuit
to revise their census methodology to
incorporate Inuit knowledge of whale
migration behavior under the ice and
far offshore. As a result, bowhead
whale population estimates roughly
tripled to more than 15,000 over the
next three decades, leading to a grad-
ual increase in the number of whales
Alaska Inuit can harvest.
“Local management by local peo-
ple, including their knowledge—that’s
the way forward,” said Kuupik V.
Kleist, former Greenland premier and
co-author of a 2017 Inuit Circumpolar
Council’s report on the future of Piki-
alasorsuaq. “I can’t see anything else.”
Qillaq’s breaths
M E T RO N O M E D BY
and paddle strokes, the hunt is a
finely choreographed yet precari-
ous water dance. A harpoon cord
caught on the kayak, a thrashing
narwhal catching the boat with its
tail, or a charging walrus can end a
hunter’s life just as swiftly as a har-
poon can find a narwhal’s back. Qil-
laq and his companions treat every
successful hunt as a gift. They share
the meat based on their role—from
harpooning to keeping watch on the
shifting ice, from butchering to look-
ing after the camp. The first hunter to
harpoon the narwhal gets a section
of eqqui (meat between the head
and fins), uliutaa (meat from along
the backbone), sarpiup illua (half the
tail, or fluke), nungiallua (tailbone),
uummataa (heart), niaqua (head),
and tuugaaq (tusk). The next hunter
gets itersoraq (lower body), sarpiata
aappaa (other half of the fluke), and
uliutaa. Additional members of the
hunting party receive smaller and
less desirable parts, including inter-
nal and reproductive organs. The last
to be rewarded are the dogs, valued
by Inughuit hunters as a more reli-
able mode of transportation on the
spring ice than snowmobiles, which
are faster but noisier, more expensive,
and prone to breakdowns.
A good narwhal hunting season
provides enough meat and mattak
for Inughuit to feed their families
and dogs, and to share at community
events such as weddings. Plus, it pro-
vides a supply of mattak and tusks
that can be sold locally. An almost
40 percent quota reduction would
mean the loss of both sustenance
and income. “Sometimes when the
quota is used up, they have nothing
to hunt for three months,” said Ale-
qatsiaq Peary, adding that they have
to “stop hunting and even sell their
equipment.”
About 30 locals make up the Qaa-
naaq hunters union, a branch of the
KNAPK, which represents the eco-
nomic, social, and cultural interests
of its members. They rely on income
from hunting and fishing, supple-
mented by occasional part-time jobs,
to make a living and maintain their
vocational hunter status.
Union members are confident
there are more narwhals around
the fjord today than in the past. “It
has become very noticeable that
the narwhal numbers have been
increasing dramatically,” said Dan-
ielsen. Similarly, they see narwhals
looking and behaving differently
from what they remember, which
suggests to them the mixing of sep-
arate stocks. Inughuit explain that
some of the newcomers, unlike nar-
whals from the Inglefield stock, have
more slender bodies and larger tails
and don’t recognize their kayaks
as a source of danger. The institute
has done genetic studies, according
to Heide-Jørgensen, and found, in
QILLAQ KRISTIANSEN,
INUGHUIT HUNTER
some instances, “the differences the hunters notice.”
Recently, there are encouraging signs that Inughuit
knowledge is poised to be more recognized. At the
national level, Greenland’s hunting laws were updated
in 2023 to require researchers to include hunters’ exper-
tise and observations in the development of population
assessments. It gives equal weight to “the science and
hunters’ knowledge in the decision-making processes,”
said Amalie A. Jessen, a division head in Greenland’s
Ministry of Fisheries and Hunting. When determining
the quotas, she explained, the government has to listen
not only to scientists. “We have to listen to hunters,”
she said. “They could tell us about the distribution of
narwhal in the area, when they arrive to the area and
when they leave, and how the ice condition is impact-
ing the hunt.” And, she added, they can report how
many calves they are seeing.
At the international level, Greenland and Canada
signed a letter of intent last year to work toward co-
managing and protecting the Pikialasorsuaq, which
could give Inughuit a greater role in stewarding their
ancestral territory, including, perhaps, Umimmattooq.
“It would mean a lot to us to have access to our
traditional area again,” said Qillaq, as he cautiously
reflected on these recent developments. “It is also
good to have stronger language in the hunting law
about hunters’ knowledge.” He wondered, though,
how long it woud take to see the law in practice—to
feel a change. In the meantime, Qillaq’s people will
continue to kayak among the narwhals, respect them,
learn from them, and depend on them. He and his
fellow hunters will be out on the spring ice edge next
season, with their harpoons. j
GREENLAND 81
Ilannguaq Qaern-
gaaq shoulders
glacial ice he uses
for drinking water.
At right, cod are
keystone species in
the Arctic, prey for
marine mammals,
birds, and other fish.
To many Inughuit,
they are also food
for sled dogs.
Using a long-handled
net, Pullaq Ulloriaq
snatches little auks
from the air above
their nesting ground
near Siorapaluk, an
Inughuit settlement
northwest of Qaanaaq.
Little auks fermented
in sealskin are a tra-
ditional food in the
community.
A harvested narwhal
is towed, tailfirst,
to a cleared spot
on the ice near the
hunters’ camp. After
it’s been secured,
it will be carved up
and portioned out
in a way that most
rewards the hunters
who harpooned
the animal.
 VOICES

MORE A Māori model for

THAN teaching language has

NEW ZEALAND

shown communities

WORDS across the world a

way to reclaim and
rebuild their cultures.

WORDS BY
AROHA AWARAU

P H OTO G R A P H S BY
TANIA NIWA
 I V E Y E A R S AG O, in the heart of
the Kanien’kehá:ka Nation,
along the Canadian St. Law-
rence River across from Mon-
tréal, Kanen’tó:kon Hemlock
and Ieronhienhá:wi Tatum
McComber pondered a ques-
tion posed by their friend
and mentor, Māori language advocate Sir
Tīmoti Kāretu.
Kanien’kéha, the Mohawk language, is
one of the world’s many endangered Indige-
nous languages. Over the past two decades,
McComber (Bear Clan) and Hemlock (Bear
Clan) have been part of a community effort
to operate an immersive language school,
which surrounds Mohawk students with flu-
ent language speakers. As she put together
plans for the school at the turn of the 21st
century, McComber looked around the world
for inspiration and forged relationships with
others who have successfully rekindled their
languages. There might not be anyone as
well-versed in this endeavor as the man who
sat across from McComber, Hemlock, and a
group of fellow Kanien’kéha speakers at their
school’s kitchen table.
Kāretu’s question for them was straightfor-
ward: What was their dream for the future of
the language? More time to study the intri-
cacies of Kanien’kéha with the nation’s first-
language speakers, now mostly elders, said
McComber. Kāretu (Ngāti Kahungunu, Ngāi
Tūhoe) leaned back: “Well, you had all this
time with them already. Has it helped?” Yes,
but not enough, not yet. Elders were aging,
and young speakers still had much to learn.
What they needed was greater urgency.
Ngauranga Kura Ranginiwa (at left) raised
three mokopuna, or grandchildren, including
Stevie-Rei Pokaia (at right). As a kaiako, or
teacher, at a Kohanga reo—a school of Māori
language and culture—Ranginiwa helped teach
her mokopuna. Following the path of her kui,
or grandmother, Pokaia now works as a kaiako.
Ranginiwa and Pokaia are shown on Ngāti Te
Whiti land at Kawaroa, Ngāmotu, Taranaki.
Hemlock says this was a very Sir Tīmoti
kind of response. Direct and considered,
expectational and instructive. McComber—
the founder and a teacher of 10 years and
counting at the language nest school in
Kanien’kehá:ka—says that from their first
meeting with Kāretu in 2019, his guidance
and drive have motivated her and her fellow
Kanien’kéha speakers.
“Don’t wait for money, don’t wait for
anyone’s approval, and don’t wait for anyone
to jump on board,” McComber says. Just do
the work.
It’s the same message Kāretu and his
cohorts carried with them six decades ago,
when te reo Māori, the Māori language, was
approaching endangered status. And it’s the
same message he preaches today as he trav-
els to Indigenous communities across the
world with a delegation of te reo speakers
and teachers.
His words carry the weight of hope because
of what Māori organizers accomplished and
built—and what others have been able to
build with their blueprint.
a contingent of young,
I N T H E E A R LY 1 9 7 0 S ,
urban, and university-educated Māori began to
form a movement in Aotearoa—the te reo word
for New Zealand. These activists called them-
selves Ngā Tamatoa, or Young Warriors. Along
with other regional groups, they organized
against the New Zealand government’s mar-
ginalization and forced assimilation of Māori
communities, starting with policies designed
to stem the use of te reo Māori.
In 1867, New Zealand passed the Native
Schools Act, outlawing the use of te reo in
schools. Teachers and school administrators
beat students who dared to speak their mother
tongue. Those abused Māori children became
Māori parents; trying to protect their own chil-
dren from the same fate, many discouraged
the use of the Māori language, first in pub-
lic and then at home. The number of native
speakers dwindled, and the language was at
risk of being lost.
NEW ZEALAND 89
 “Everything during that period was learn-
ing how to be a colonizer,” says Tame Iti, a
renowned Māori activist and artist, who joined
Ngā Tamatoa when he was 17. In 1972, Iti (Ngāi
Tuhoe, Waikato, Te Arawa) and fellow Ngā
Tamatoa members marched with the Te Reo
Māori Society to the steps of the New Zealand
Parliament in Wellington. The contingent car-
ried a petition, signed by more than 30,000
people, that called for Māori to be taught in
all public schools. The highly visible nature
of the protest, Iti believes, imbued Māori com-
munities across Aotearoa with the confidence
to reclaim te reo Māori.
Dame Iritana Tāwhiwhirangi was a founder
and instrumental leader of the movement’s
first major success: Kohanga Reo. Opened
in 1982, the Kohanga Reo model was one
of commitment. Parents and toddlers were
expected to speak only te reo both in the
classroom and at home, and the curriculum
focused solely on Māori history and culture.
Elders and other proficient language speakers
led the classes. Translated in English to “lan-
guage nest,” the Kohanga Reo was the first
program of its kind to use total language and
cultural immersion. For Māori communities,
the schools were a revelation.
According to Tāwhiwhirangi (Ngāti Porou,
Ngāti Kahungunu, Ngāpuhi), the program
started with five schools and within three
years expanded to more than 300 locations.
The rapid spread of Kohanga Reo marked
an unprecedented success of cultural recla-
mation. For Tāwhiwhirangi, it showed the
widespread, pent-up desire Māori families
felt to educate their children according to
their own non-colonial standards.
“The families on the ground are fundamen-
tally the basis for learning the language,” she
says. “Kohanga Reo, in the first years, it flew.
Why did it fly? Not because I was there with a
teaching background, not because of Tīmoti.”
The difference-maker, she said, was that the
Kohanga Reo, particularly in the early years,
were entirely community led. Families raised
the money to rent or buy classroom spaces,
90 VOICES
and volunteers planned and taught classes.
The New Zealand government was intention-
ally uninvolved with curriculum and oversight.
At the early nurturing stage in particular,
Tāwhiwhirangi says, language starts at home.
in 1983, right
O R I I N I K A I PA R A WA S B O R N
as the movement to revitalize te reo took
off. Her parents and grandparents helped
start the local Kohanga Reo, one of the first
to open in Aotearoa. Kaipara and her class-
mates were taught to speak Māori “all the
time, everywhere, no matter what,” she
says. As a child, Kaipara (Ngāti Awa, Tūhoe,
Tūwharetoa, Ngāti Rangitihi) did not under-
stand that she was part of a movement or
that her class was, as she says, the “guinea
pigs”—they were just Māori kids, with Māori
teachers and administrators.
“Our grandparents ruled, our parents
ruled,” she says. “They just really wanted to
instill in us the beauty of our language, our
culture, and who we are.”
Māori families soon recognized the work
could not begin and end with the Kohanga
Reo. In 1985, in Kaipara’s corner of Aotearoa, a
group of Māori elders and educators founded
Te Kura Kaupapa Māori o Hoani Waititi—the
first te reo immersion school for primary
school students. Meanwhile, a contingent
that included Tāwhiwhirangi and Kāretu,
who was appointed Māori language com-
missioner in 1987, organized the passage of
the Māori Language Act, which gave te reo
Māori official status alongside English and,
later, New Zealand Sign Language.
As Kaipara grew up within the new Māori-
led school system, she says, she learned the
responsibility she and her classmates shared,
both to Māoridom and to their parents and
grandparents for the sacrifices they had
made. In 2021, Kaipara became the first news
broadcaster with a moko kauae, a traditional
chin tattoo, to host prime-time news.
“Kaupapa has given me this cool way of
being confident, standing comfortably in
front of people and publicly speaking, reading
 A renowned educator, for-
mer Māori language com-
missioner Sir Tīmoti Kāretu
helped lead the rejuve-
nation of te reo Māori.
Shown here on the beach in
Waimārama with the island
of Te Motu-o-Kura in the
background, he now men-
tors Indigenous language
teachers around the world.

opened a language nest

the news in English as well as in Māori,” she
says. “Navigating two completely different
worlds with ease.”
model quickly became
T H E L A N G UAG E N E S T
one of Māoridom’s most important exports
for Indigenous communities worldwide.
Around the same time as a young Kaipara
was in Kohanga Reo, Native Hawaiian lan-
guage advocates were beginning to address
language loss. In 1982, Māori language scholar
Tamati Reedy traveled to Hawai‘i for a lecture
and to spread word of the newly established
Kohanga Reo. Within two years, a small group
led by Larry Kimura, now a professor of the
Hawaiian language and Hawaiian studies at
the University of Hawai‘i at Hilo, set up the
first language nest schools in Hawai‘i, called
Aha Pūnana Leo. The following year they
school in Hilo and another
in Honolulu.
Four decades on, the
Aha Pūnana Leo system
includes 13 preschools
across Hawai‘i; organiz-
ers and administrators
have also opened a series
of primary and secondary
immersion schools. Like
the Kohanga Reo, the Aha
Pūnana Leo became a bea-
con: When McComber was
researching how to oper-
ate the Kanien’kéha lan-
guage nest, she traveled to Hawai‘i to learn
how they’d adjusted the Māori model to fit
their cultural needs.
“We wouldn’t have been able to get where
we are without the support of other Indige-
nous peoples who are doing the work,” Hem-
lock says. “We’ve always needed each other.”
From the Puyallup Tribe in Washington
State to the Sámi in Finland, Indigenous com-
munities have begun to follow the example
set by the Māori language nests six decades
ago. As Kimura notes, the act of mastering
one’s own language extends beyond learning
a new set of words and phrases. It allows com-
munities to view and understand the world
as their ancestors did and keeps their way of
life alive and well for the generations to come.
“It’s not just language,” he says.
It’s everything. j

NEW ZEALAND 91
 Ali‘inui
3,274 ft
998 m

K A U A ‘ I

H
N

li
Pali‘ele‘ele

A
ORGANIZED BY ELEVATION AK

ah u
3,225 ft H Ne
Each ahupua‘a was divided 983 m Ā‘ ĀP ah
Ī‘A

Lim
EN
vertically, from a high point to A I
lower elevations on wao (land) or A
kai (sea). Protected headwaters and I NIH
WA A
sacred forests were typically found ‘EN
HĀ
at the mountaintops, managed
farms and forests at mid-elevations, Y 2
and housing on lower elevations. E
L
L
Wao akua A Limahuli
1 V
(sacred forest) Falls
The top of the watershed is a pris- A
tine area, revered and conserved.
O
N Agroeco
Ā Pāpala
2 Wao kele M 3
Terraces
(wet forest) wood used for divert w
Pōhakukāne ‘ōahi fire ceremony
Rainwater is managed to 1,703 ft constant
on Makana ridge
maximize aquifer recharge 519 m around c
and native tree growth. L I M A H U L I and taro
increasin
3 Wao nāhele
(remote forest) V A L L E Y
Hula
This zone is for kia manu, or bird students
catchers, who gather feathers 4
for traditional ornamentation. Kukui trees
4 Wao lā au
(timber forest)
Trees here are cultivated for Kaupapa lo‘i
timber, fuel, and rope, as well (irrigated
as medicinal purposes. terraces)

5 Wao kānaka
(habitation zone) Hula (sa
Complex agroecological and aqua- dancers
cultural systems support food
Mai‘a (banana)
production and other daily needs.

6 Kai po ina nalu

(breaking waves)
This area includes fringing reefs
that support fishing and surfing. H Ā ‘ E N A A H U P U A ‘
Hukihuk
Puna (tug-of-
(spring)

‘Ulu maika Kauhale

(bowling) (multigenerational
housing) Hākōkō
Kaula‘i (wrestling)
(drying fish) Kalo 5
Pā pua‘a (taro)
(animal pen)
Kā ‘upena
(netmaking)

Alaia
Hō‘aha (surfboard)
Hala trees
(ropemaking) used for w
rope and n

We acknowledge the Indigenous intellectual property represented

in this illustration, with gratitude to the community of Hā‘ena, Lei
Wann, and Kawika B. Winter, people with deep knowledge of Hā‘ena, SCALE VARIES IN THIS PERSPECTIVE. THE DISTANCE
and keepers of the stories of the kūpuna (elders and ancestors). FROM THE SUMMIT TO THE BEACH IS THREE MILES.
eighboring
hupua‘a
NĀPALI F ROM S KY TO S E A
COAST
An ahupua‘a is part of a larger system, called moku,
that divided each island into pie-shaped eco-regions.
The people of the Hā‘ena ahupua‘a on Kaua‘i fought to
regain many stewardship rights over recent decades;
today 92 percent of the area is intact. Pictured here
as it would have been in the mid-1800s, this ahupua‘a
traditionally functioned in part to support an institution
La of higher learning at a temple overlooking the sea.
uk
ea Mauna Pūlo‘u
1,766 ft
538 m
ology
Ni‘ihau KAUA‘I HAWAI‘I
s filter and (U.S.)
water to O‘ahu
tly circulate Direction Honolulu Moloka‘i
crops of view
Lāna‘i Maui
o ponds, Heiau (temple)
Students at the
HĀ‘ENA Kaho‘olawe
ng yields.
Kauluapāoa Hanalei Hawai‘i
lo temple are
Hi taught chants
s u o Moku
P u‘ and dances boundary
imbued with 5,243 ft
thousands of Ahupua‘a 1,598 m
years of history. boundary
Līhu‘e

5 mi

ana 5 km K AUA‘ I
Mak
‘Iliahi
andalwood)
Loko i‘a (fishponds)
Aquaculture sys-
tems increase fish
abundance for
the community. P A C I F I C O C E A N
Loko Kēʻē
A
ki Loko Naiʻa I N N OVAT I O N S I N T H E A H U P UA A
-war) Hā‘ena—one of few remaining of the more than
1,800 ahupua‘a that once existed—is at the vanguard
of mixing technology with Indigenous techniques.

Hukilau Gardener drones Prepping for extremes

(group net Attached robotic arms allow Growing a diverse mix of native
fishing) scientists to collect samples plants along streambeds and
and seeds from rare, native across forests reduces the effects
species along steep cliffs. of increased flooding, landslides,
Kālai wa‘a and wildfire.
(canoe Co-managed fishery
carving) The local community determines Sustainable tourism
6 appropriate catch levels and part- Visitor numbers are limited,
weaving ners with the state to manage as is access to the most fragile
nets marine resources. parts of the ecosystem.

EVE CONANT, NGM STAFF; RESEARCH: MICHAEL FRY. ART: KAI‘ILI KAULUKUKUI
SOURCES: LIMAHULI GARDEN AND PRESERVE; HAWAI‘I STATE OFFICE OF PLANNING
 C U LT U R E VOICES
ANCIENT
PRACTICE ,
FUTURE
PROMISE A blueprint for
THE
CENTER
sustainability
is being re-
H AWA I I

discovered in

OF IT
the Indigenous
A RT BY Hawaiian moku
KAI‘ILI KAULUKUKUI and ahupua a
systems of land

ALL
BY
ROSEMARY P. WARDLEY stewardship.

This 1837 map by

Hawaiian cartog-
rapher S.P. Kalama
was one of the most
detailed of its time
and showed existing
moku and ahupua‘a
boundaries. Despite repressive
NIGERIA

EVERETT COLLECTION
HISTORICAL/ALAMY
STOCK PHOTO
laws and societal
stigmas, many
Indigenous Nigerians
F O R C E N T U R I E S , the islands of Today, facing a changing cli- including those in the
the Hawaiian archipelago were mate and strained resources, LGBTQ community,
divided into self-sustaining Hawaiians on several islands are expressing and
communities called ahupua‘a. are working to revive this Indig-
celebrating their true
Through collective stewardship, enous practice.
they provided people with food, Lei Wann, a descendant of one
identities.
building material, and other of the original families from a
P H OTO G R A P H S
basic and cultural necessities. still largely intact ahupua‘a on
BY
The thriving system, however, the island of Kaua‘i, says that YAGAZIE
was dismantled over the 20th combining the “tool kit of today” EMEZI

century with the rise of the with ancient systems will help her
WORDS BY
Western practice of private land- community keep their ahupua‘a AKWAEKE
ownership and the growth of “as environmentally sound as our EMEZI
the plantation economy. ancestors once did.”

95 96
 In this image, Nigerian
photographer Yagazie Emezi
(Igbo, Tamil)—the sister
of writer Akwaeke Emezi
(Igbo)—explores the pressure
some Nigerians feel to hide
their authentic selves from
state-enforced marginaliza-
tion, such as the Same Sex
Marriage (Prohibition) Act.

s,
e

A U T H O R A K WA E K E
EMEZI AND DESIGNER
ADEJU THOMPSON
D I S C U S S C R E AT I V I T Y
AND RESILIENCE.
IN ADEJU THOMPSON’S design studio, the walls and
ceilings are a rich cobalt blue and every surface is cov-
ered with art, from sculptural bronze pieces to piles
of books and family photographs. An artisan from
his team sits at a large table, using a feather to paint
careful lines of cassava paste on a sea of white fabric,
creating àdìre. cloth with a traditional Yoruba tech-
nique. This resist-dyed fabric will be transformed into
garments for Lagos Space Programme, Thompson’s
luxury fashion label.
I’m returning to my home country from New York, a
rare visit to Lagos since I launched my literary career
in 2018. In the years since, I’ve published seven more
books and been on the cover of Time magazine, but
as a queer Nigerian author and artist who chose to
leave, exile still breathes down my neck. Nigeria isn’t
a safe place for its queer and trans citizens, yet other
queer Nigerian creatives remain at home either by
choice or circumstance. It’s special to see someone
like Thompson creating genderless clothing collec-
tions in Lagos—more particularly, making art rooted
in cultures that our own people try to deny us.
In Thompson’s hands, Lagos Space Programme is
African design spun into the future, experimental and
singular. It is not only a ready-to-wear brand but also a
concept patterned in history. With this body of work,
Thompson recently became the first African designer
to win the International Woolmark Prize, a prestigious
award for rising stars in the fashion industry.
Walking into his studio on the Lagos mainland feels
like entering a pocket of weighted and delightful pos-
sibility. We sit on a couch draped in deep-blue àdìre.,
drinking cups of tea as we chat about the evolution of
98 VOICES
culture and working from our respec-
tive Indigenous centers as an Igbo
artist and a Yoruba designer.
I think about cen-
A K WA E K E E M E Z I :
ters in my work because of that Toni
Morrison quote where she said, “I
stood at the border … claimed it as
central … and let the rest of the world
move over to where I was.” So, with
decolonization, it’s defined accord-
ing to the white center we are moving
away from, right? I feel like re-indig-
enization focuses on the center that
we’re moving towards. What center
are you moving towards?
ADEJU THOMPSON: I grew up bullied
and very insecure, very introverted.
When I went to school in the U.K., my
professor could see where my work
was heading, and he asked if I knew
about the Antwerp Six, about Yohji
Yamamoto and the Japanese design-
ers. These artists’ work was differ-
ent from anything I experienced in
fashion design in Nigeria. It was very
introspective, very vulnerable, and
it reflected that moment in my life. I
wanted to be a Nigerian version of it.
I’m now obsessed with Yoruba
culture; it’s given me so much pride
in myself and how I put myself
into the world. But initially, I con-
sumed Yoruba culture on the surface.
People being loud or very colorful—
branded with Gucci glasses and loud
lace—I never saw myself in that.
A few months back, though, I was
shopping with my cousin at a Prada
shop, and I realized I like shiny
things now [laughter].
EMEZI: You’ve come back around.
THOMPSON: I tell people I’m in my
Yoruba auntie energy ... I can really
design my life how I want it. I can find
these shiny things very appealing,
but I’m still that guy that’s emotional
and sensitive.
EMEZI: When I think of the shininess,
I think of it as a very old culture of
adornment, right? It may look differ-
ent in a contemporary skin, but the
essence of it is ancient.
THOMPSON: Look at how these
women are dressed! Look at the
drama of the draping! This is so
romantic, you know. Look at how
people wear the agbadas. Look at
the intensity. Do you know what it
means to put yourself out in the
world in this way, to carry yourself in
this very powerful way?
I hadn’t seen that at first, because
when you go through a lot of trauma,
you close yourself up. From when I
was a child, I never had a problem
with being gay. But there was still a
lot of growth to happen.
I was actually very anxious before
you came. I was like, I wonder how
Akwaeke will feel about this. When I
discovered nonbinary as an identity,
it felt like it was me—like I had found
something I could use to protect
myself and fight back against the
trauma of my masculinity growing up
and not feeling like I was accepted.
EMEZI: Do you still feel like you need
that identity as protection?
THOMPSON: No, no. At this point
in my life, I now have the audacity
to design my masculinity. I like the
fact that I was allowed to go through
my journey as an individual to get to
this point, but I don’t want my truth
to feel like it’s disrupting other peo-
ple’s identities.
EMEZI: The year that my novel Freshwater came out
was the year that I said I was nonbinary. I was trying
to build bridges of legibility between myself and this
public that was now perceiving me.
After a few years, I was like—you know what? If I’m
really moving towards this Indigenous center, then
I want to abandon the language that doesn’t belong
there. So, it’s not that I’m nonbinary. I don’t have a
gender because I’m a spirit, and spirits don’t actually
have genders. “Identify” is a useless verb to me. Either
I am the thing or I am not the thing.
With re-indigenization, people usually think about
it as a linear return. So much of your work is acknowl-
edging the past, the histories, these really ancient
techniques—but very much looking to the future.
THOMPSON: My work is really about all the culture I
consume—whether it be art, cinema, music—filtered
through a Nigerian lens. I like that I can put myself out
there now and say this is what it means to me, to be
a queer designer creating work. I hope that another
queer designer is coming behind me and can say, I
love Adeju for what he did, but this is my own version.
EMEZI: Some people think that the only authentic
culture is whatever existed when we were colonized,
as if white people came and turned their gaze on us
and we were frozen in amber.
THOMPSON: Apparently, our culture doesn’t evolve.
EMEZI: I don’t think people realize that for centuries
it was evolving. As Indigenous people, we create our
culture every day. You are of the culture, therefore,
anything you create is the culture.
THOMPSON: My new collection started when I went
to the bookshop at Versailles. I was so impressed by
the materials, the opulence of everything. I went
down that rabbit hole and came up with fusing Yoruba
dress codes with Eurocentric tailoring to create a new
visual language.
There’s this Yoruba festival called Ojude Oba that
happens once a year. It’s such a beautiful spectacle.
Families parade themselves in front of the king, in
front of the Yoruba world. With this collection, it’s
about a fictional person who lives in European society
NIGERIA 99
 IN A SERIES OF
PORTRAITS FROM
but is very Nigerian and is preparing for the Ojude YA G A Z I E E M E Z I ,
Oba festival. NONCONFORMIST
NIGERIANS RECLAIM
EMEZI: There’s so much to be said about our parents’ T H E I R S PAC E .
generation, those who were in London and were very,
very Nigerian. My father was one of them—very Igbo,
and there’s no part of him that would ever stop being
Igbo. There’s a story he tells about being at the visa
office in London, and they told him he was eligible for
a British passport. This man started shouting at them,
“Did I ask you for a British passport? I have a Nigerian
passport!” All the Nigerians who were queued up there
started cursing my father, like, “You’re a foolish man.
How can you turn down something like this?”

THOMPSON: As young people, now we can educate

ourselves on our culture and realize, Wow, I’ve been
lied to. How did I not know how powerful where I
come from is?

EMEZI: Because we’re not taught it.

THOMPSON: I’m very proud to be a Nigerian person. I

went to the Ò . s.un festival, and it was such a spectacle.
There was a lot of lace, a lot of bronze. There’s this
virgin who’s carrying a sacrifice of fruits and honey for
Ò. s.un. It’s very heavy, and she walks with the support
of the community. In front of her is an entire army of
women with daggers and a brass mirror—like, don’t
mess with us. As a designer, that comes back into my
collection, that helps with my own world-building.
I want to educate people and highlight Africa’s pro-
gressive identity precolonization—how the barbaric
people were the colonizers.

EMEZI: When you started doing this research and

introspection, do you feel like it changed your spirit?

THOMPSON: What the colonizers really tried to do was

strip us of our identity, so when you reclaim who you
are, you come into yourself. For me, that’s meant that
I’m bolder in my approach. When I’m designing my
collections, I have no limitations. When I’m making
àdìre., I’m radically thinking, What does àdìre. designed
by a queer person living now look like? j

This interview was edited for length and clarity.

 ‘Freedom,
for me,
extends
beyond
artistic
boundaries.
It encom-
passes the
lifestyle
that rejects
capitalist
norms and
assimilation
and allows
for authentic
self-
expression.’
—A A RO N
A H A LU

Aaron Ahalu grew

up aware of the
freedom that yan
daudu—a Hausa
term that means
“men who act like
women” and is
often used collo-
quially to describe
gay men—afford to
their self-expression
despite the harsh
conditions queer
people endure. It is
a history Ahalu, who
is a queer organizer
and communications
creative, draws from
when considering
their Indigenous
identity from north-
ern Nigeria, down to
how they choose to
present themselves
through fashion.

NIGERIA 101
 ‘On this day I can be
happy to wear an
àdìre. agbada, and on
another day wear an Ibibio
onyonyo, and still
feel equally connected
to these cultures.’
— U YA I I K P E - E T I M

Lagos-based creative one of the country’s

Ayo Lawson (at right) biggest queer
has found herself balls. For Ikpe-Etim,
shifting away from indigeneity means
her English upbring- acknowledging that
ing to develop and she was born and
connect with her grew up in Lagos but
Yoruba self. She is was raised by Ibibio
one of the few pub- women from south-
licly queer women in eastern Nigeria,
Nigeria, along with creating a fusion of
her partner, Uyai culture she treasures.
Ikpe-Etim (at left). “My favorite thing is
The couple, both being able to have
filmmakers, openly those two identities
identify as queer on intersect without any
social media and run issues,” she says.

NIGERIA 103
Indie musician
Zainab Donli, better
known as Lady Donli,
approaches the
complexities of her
Indigenous identity
as a constant mar-
riage of the varied
cultures and histories
that birthed her.
Her paternal great-
grandfather hailed
from Chad and
escaped from slave
traders before com-
ing to Nigeria. Her
father is Hausa from
Kaduna, in the north,
while her mother is
Ijaw from Bayelsa, in
the southern part of
the country. “I have
never specifically felt
a sense of belonging
thoroughly to my
Hausa identity, and
neither have I felt
the same for my Ijaw
identity,” she says.
“I’ve always grown
up and just thought,
I’m Nigerian.”

‘Freedom is
being able to
do what I want
without fear of
condemnation—
without fear that
my identity
as a queer Black
woman is going
to get in the way
of everything
that I’m doing.’
—Z A I N A B D O N L I
 ‘Realizing
who I am
makes me
feel better—
[that] was
the freedom
I needed.
Being Native
is not a sin;
it’s nothing
to be
ashamed of.’
— J O R DY N
O M O LO LU
VA N G E I

A queer fashion
designer, Jordyn
Omololu Vangei was
raised connected to
his Yoruba culture.
As a young child, he
lived with his moth-
er’s side of the family,
speaking Yoruba.
That changed when,
at five years old,
he went to live with
his father, who pri-
oritized English and
Western sensibilities.
“I had to start speak-
ing English,” he says.
“So being Indige-
nous is something
I had to hold on to
for myself.” Vangei,
who is a trans man,
finds comfort in the
understanding that
Yoruba history—his
history—is filled with
figures who defied
convention.

106 VOICES
 For Ezra Olubi, a
renowned innovator
and business leader
who founded Pay-
stack, one of Nigeria’s
biggest tech compa-
nies, the concept of
Indigenous identity
is closely tied to
developing one’s
structures of safety
and freedom. “It
has been a series
of putting things
in place to create an
ideal bubble around
myself,” he says.
“This is something
I've been doing over
time, depending
on wherever I am.”
One such bubble is
his home, where he
was photographed,
which is in an area
set slightly away
from the relentless-
ness of Lagos.

‘I like testing the

limits of what’s
acceptable. Like, OK,
I want to paint my
nails … I should be able
to do what I want.’
— E Z R A O LU B I

NIGERIA 107
Writer Ayodele
Olofintuade is
training as a Yoruba
traditionalist, a pro-
cess that involves
learning the ways of
Yoruba spirituality
and its connections
to one’s ancestry.
“Indigeneity is not
conferred; it’s who
you are,” she says.
Olofintuade, who
is a queer woman,
says the guidelines
of Yoruba traditions
are more accepting
of nonconformist
identities than
Western religions.

‘I am Yoruba,
and so,
automatically,
all the wealth,
all the miseries,
all the flaws, all
the perfections
of the Yoruba
[lineage] I am
born into accrues
to me. I am
connected to my
ancestors.’
—AYO D E L E O LO F I N T UA D E
A British Nigerian
artist and filmmaker,
Remi Vaughan-
Richards contem-
plates the role of
race in the develop-
ment of her Yoruba
identity. Her main
question: If one
straddles various cul-
tures within oneself,
who, or what, deter-
mines what accu-
rately defines one’s
identity? “Being
Indigenous, to me,
means embracing
the culture you’re
from … I am Indig-
enous in the sense
that I am interested
in traditional spiritu-
ality. I am Indigenous
in the fact that I like
to wear àdìre., which
was a way for women
to pass messages
between each other
in the past.”

‘The whole world has

become a mishmash
of Westernisms.
So how can you be
Indigenous? Well, look
how I’m dressed for a
start; I combine both.’
— R E M I VAU G H A N - R I C H A R D S

110 VOICES
‘I’ve always
known me.
I have
always seen
myself.
I am free
and
beautiful.’
—JOHNTEL
PETERS

Fashion creative
Johntel Peters, or
JP, hails from Delta
state but grew up
disconnected from
his Indigenous iden-
tity. Peters, who
is queer, did not
meet the cultural
demands expected
of him at home and
instead found his
freedom dancing on
the ballroom floor.

NIGERIA 111
A creative and style
nonconformist,
Charles Oputa is
better known by his
artistic alter ego,
Charly Boy. He has
shifted the scales
of masculine presen-
tation in Nigerian
media—from his
androgynous appear-
ance during the
release of his hit
album 1990 to a much
publicized kiss with
entertainer Denrele
Edun. Oputa’s father,
former Supreme
Court of Nigeria
justice Chukwudifu
Oputa, was Igbo.
As Charly Boy, the
younger Oputa found
a connection between
his spiritual guide
and his Indigenous
identity, adopting a
“spiritual warrior” he
calls Odudubariba.

‘I know [Charly
Boy] has a
feminine side,
with all this
personality
wanting to come
out. Sometimes
it’s my female
side that takes
the upper hand.
Sometimes it’s my
male, dominant
side that takes
the upper hand.’
— C H A R L E S O P U TA
NIGERIA 113
 ‘Being
Indigenous
means being
in touch with
my ancestors
and learning
from lessons
that they
have passed
on … bringing
that into the
present day.’
—OBEHI EKHOMU

114 VOICES
Edo restaurateur
Obehi Ekhomu,
photographed with
her three children, has
found a connection
between rejecting the
pressure of societal
acceptance and pay-
ing attention to her
spiritual guides, whom
she describes as two
genderless beings.
“I have trashed the
whole ideology of
being accepted or
rejected by society …
It’s about having a
stronger center,” she
says, adding that this
spiritual center helps
her advocate for her
needs. It also grounds
how she approaches
grief as an Edo woman.
After she lost her
father, he came back
to her in dreams,
reassuring her.

Nigerian journalist
Nelson C.J. (Igbo) wrote
the captions for this
photo series. C.J. is
based in Lagos and has
been published in the
New York Times, Rolling
Stone, and Time.

NIGERIA 115
 VOICES
A FUTURE IN
INDIGENOUS
HANDS
AT E R A N D W E A LT H
are constructed
from the same
word in Hawai-
ian. These terms—
w a i a n d wa i wa i,
respectively—are
an indelible part
of who I am, and who Native Hawaiians
are. They’re reminders that we’ve always
valued the abundant natural beauty and
life-giving resources of our homelands.
There is perhaps no better example of
this than ahupua‘a land divisions, a socio-
economic and geological system that
Hawaiian communities designed more
than a thousand years ago to apportion the
islands into seasonally responsive slices
that ran from the mountains to the sea.
These land divisions fed snowmelt along
irrigation routes to terraced taro patches.
They provided valuable bacteria and
phytonutrients to fishponds. Those fish
then populated the inner reefs and, once
mature, the Pacific Ocean. The system
116
For National Geographic
Explorer Keolu Fox, the
key to harnessing the
technology of tomorrow
is centering the past.
WORDS BY
KEOLU FOX
A RT BY
WALLY DION
itself was highly organized and politically
complex. It supported a huge labor force and
provided a sustainable supply of food for the
entire population.
Across the world, Indigenous communi-
ties have long been incubators of sustainable
systems. Pueblo and other Native architects
developed ingenious multistory housing
uniquely crafted for the deserts of North
America. Aboriginal communities in Aus-
tralia perfected the ecologically enriching
land management practice known as cultural
burning. These systems, like our land divi-
sions, reflect a union of the local culture and
environment, one that keeps the needs of a
community and the planet in balance.
As we all strive to imagine the future,
the inevitability of extractive capitalism
should not be assumed. Rather, it’s impor-
tant to think deeply about how to build an
alternative reality—one where Indigenous
perspectives on relationships to land, sea,
sky, and cosmos are the guiding force. We
should all ask, What would our planet look
like in Indigenous hands?
With his sculptural work “green star quilt,” visual artist Wally Dion (Canadian and Yellow Quill
First Nation/Saulteaux) used recycled computer circuit boards, brass wire, and copper
tubing to explore the evolution of Indigenous expression. Inspired by the star quilts
from Lakota, Ojibwe, Crow, and other Northern Plains tribal communities, Dion’s work also
illuminates the extraction and waste required to maintain our reliance on technology.

117
 Produced in 2019, Dion’s “caterpillar, egg, cocoon, moth” employs circuit
boards to underscore the significant amounts of energy and nutrients that
caterpillars require to make their transformations into moths.

future will
C H A RT I N G A N I N D I G E N O U S
require a shift in our consciousness. We can
optimize landscapes for exponential growth,
profit, and, eventually, failure, or we can opti-
mize for harmony and balance. To quote an
ancient Hawaiian chief, “He ali‘i ka ‘āina, the
the books of a casino in the Pacific Northwest.
I was surprised to find that this gentleman was
not using a model based on quarterly, or even
annual, returns; his spreadsheet’s financial
plan extended 10 generations into the future.
Over the past several decades, Indigenous
PHOTOS: KT KANAZAWICH

land is a chief; he kauwā ke kanaka, humans
are its servants.”
Rather than focus on short-term gains, we
must prioritize future generations.
I once stumbled upon an elder balancing
communities have seen various economic
drivers come and go, from natural resource
extraction—oil, gas, and coal—to gaming and
casinos. It’s clear that data is next. Is there a
more valuable resource today on the planet?

118 VOICES
 To be in control of their assets, Indigenous
peoples should build their own data centers—
but in such a way that they would be not only
sovereign but also sustainable, in harmony
and balance with nature. Rather than follow
the example of titan chipmaker TSMC, which
chose the sweltering expanses of Phoenix for
two planned factories, we could situate these
critical infrastructures in cool climates abun-
dant in natural water resources and reduce
the energy consumption needed to keep them
from overheating. Companies and countries
too should think beyond tax incentives and
weak labor markets when deciding where
data centers should be built. Indigenous
communities might offer their own exam-
ples for the design and implementation of
these centers, powered by renewable energy
sources that respect the Earth’s rhythms
and acknowledge that resources aren’t just
resources—they’re ancestors.
To realize a world that revolves around
these shared values, all of us must think
further into the future.
Imagine Indigenous scientists using the
tools of synthetic biology to heal the Earth by
genome-editing bacteria to metabolize plas-
tic in the ocean into biofuel. Gaping holes left
festering from the violent pursuit of critical
minerals, such as lithium, cobalt, and tanta-
lum, are remediated and transformed into
pristine freshwater aquifers—poison sucked
out like a snakebite. Imagine storing data in
the genomes of indigenous photosynthesiz-
ing plants, an idea that already is more science
than fiction: In 2017 researchers announced
that they had used the gene-editing system
Crispr to encode a digital movie into the DNA
of a population of E. coli bacteria. Imagine the
roots of these carbon-negative “data centers”
simultaneously encouraging biodiversity,
treating soil that has been polluted for centu-
ries, and providing fruits and vegetables for
local farmers to sell.
Rather than cities all converging on the
same look of Ikea-brochure apartments and
placeless, copy-and-paste office towers,
our built environment might reflect local
innovation, heritage, and culture. Imagine
that homes are once again living ancestors:
Ancient, local soil is repurposed into bio-
concrete infused with genome-editing
bacteria that seal cracks by calcifying into
new limestone. Imagine building materials
with photosynthetic properties that draw
energy from the sun, or bioluminescence that
might dim our harsh, urban glare and restore
the view of the night sky our people once
knew. Imagine 3D-printing urban structures
into ancient shapes, like the tangled, twist-
ing, living bridges that the Khasi and Jaintia
people in India wove from the roots of trees.
ONE VISION OF INDIGENOUS futurism is
alternative history. A time line where Captain
Cook never makes it to Hawai‘i, Cortés never
arrives at Tenochtitlan in search of gold,
and the Niña, Pinta, and Santa María are
still trees planted in the earth. Where would
Indigenous peoples be? What would they
have become? But there’s another time line
we should consider—one that doesn’t require
us to change the past, just the future: Land
and ancestors returned. Cities and rural land-
scapes where technology and nature coexist.
Community networks thriving on decentral-
ized digital platforms that empower local
decision-making and facilitate a barter-based
economy rooted in shared resources and
knowledge. Matriarchy restored. Education
systems that immerse students in Indigenous
histories and cultures, fostering a global citi-
zenship that respects and celebrates both the
ancient and the futuristic.
Charting this Indigenous future—shifting
our consciousness—will mean adopting a
shared vision where the wisdom of the past
guides us for generations to come. One where
technology serves humanity’s deepest values
and aspirations. Where the guardianship of
the Earth and the equitable distribution of its
resources define progress. j
For more about ahupua‘a land management,
see page 92.
119
 S T E WA R D S H I P

Hugo Lucitante reflects on

how his fellow Cofán took
radical, creative action
when they saw threats to
their lives and their land.

ECUADOR
SOUTH
AMERICA
CIFIC
PA
EAN
OC
WORDS BY
HUGO LUCITANTE

P H OTO G R A P H S BY
KILIII YÜYAN
NGM MAPS

120
From left, forest
guardians Graciela
Quenama Lucitante,
Alexandra Narvaez,
and Morelia Men-
dua, carrying spears
symbolic of their
role, watch over
Cofán ancestral land.
 when we Ecuadorian
W E D I D N ’ T C A R RY W E A P O N S
Cofán began working as state-recognized guardians
of our forests. Machetes, yes, but those were for cut-
ting brush. Our guards had GPS trackers and heavy
backpacks, loaded with food and first aid kits, for long
stretches of overnighting outdoors. Each team of five
Cofán headed out for a month at a time, after training
in how to handle the presence of illegal intruders: log-
gers, poachers, gold miners, drug couriers.
As a people, we call ourselves A’i, the speakers of
A’ingae. There are about 1,500 of us Ecuadorian Cofán,
with a few hundred more over the border in Colombia.
Many of our guards had to learn enough Spanish to
deliver their warnings: This is Cofán land, they would
say. Ours, not yours. Confrontation was not the point;
the guardians were empowered to call in the military
as backup when the encounters turned dangerous.
But that wasn’t usually necessary. Their very presence
was enough to persuade most invaders to leave the
forests that the Ecuadorian government—pressed by
A’i leaders of my father’s generation—had officially
designated Cofán-managed territory.
These forests, the homeland that Cofán have occu-
pied since preconquest times, cover more than a
million acres of Ecuador, from lowland Amazonia
to the base of the Andes. And
A Cofán canoeist when our guardians program
paddles in Ecuador’s was at full strength, from 2003
Zábalo River wet-
lands. Over a few
to 2013, it was demonstrably
decades, the gov- successful. Satellite imagery
ernment designated during those years showed
areas from lowland our forests remained robust
Amazonia to the
base of the Andes and intact, even as the rest of
as Cofán territory. Ecuador was losing forest at

122 S T E WA R D S H I P
ECUADOR 123
At age 10, Hugo
Lucitante was sent
to Seattle for a U.S.
education. Now
37, he is back in his
homeland, building
a lab where research-
ers and Cofán will
work together.

(Opposite)
Wings and other
beetle parts were
fashioned by
Cofán into lumi-
nous jewelry.
 Ipiales Caq
ue
t á
Tulcán S
E
D
N C O L O M B I A
Ukumari
Kankhe
A

Approximate area
Cofán historically inhabited
Bermejo
Bermeja by Cofán people
River
Sin

C ay ambe-
an

Nueva Loja Current Cofán lands

C oc a
go
e

Dureno have less deforestation Put

Cayambe Co Duvuno than surrounding areas. um
ca a yo
18,996 ft
5,790 m
E C U A D O R
Shushufindi
arico Zábalo
A gu PER U
Zábalo
Zábalo R.
Puerto Francisco de Orellana

FOREST GUARDIANS

AMAZON NETWORK OF GEOREFERENCED SOCIO-ENVIRONMENTAL INFORMATION (RAISG); MATTHEW C. HANSEN, UNIVERSITY OF MARYLAND
Na

MAP: SOREN WALLJASPER, NGM STAFF. SOURCES: MICHAEL CEPEK AND DAVID F. RODRÍGUEZ-MORA, UNIVERSITY OF TEXAS AT SAN ANTONIO;
The Cofán people, some 1,500 in Ecuador Cofán-managed lands
o

p
and several hundred in Colombia, maintain
Tree-cover loss, 2000–2023
protections over Andean foothills and Ama-

DO R
zon rainforest—under threat from illegal 20 mi

PERU
loggers, miners, drug runners, and others. 20 km

one of the continent’s highest rates. The teams also parents—decided to send me away ECUA
brought together Cofán from far-flung places. I now to the United States. In the care of an
see this as a nation’s unification: mountain A’i and American who had been studying in
lowland A’i, all trading and expanding their expertise. Zábalo, I traveled from our village to
Given the chance, I would surely have worked my Seattle and enrolled in fourth grade.
own stint as a forest guardian. But I couldn’t, because I would receive a full U.S. education.
of a radical decision my community made about The elders hoped that eventually,
my upbringing. with summers home, I’d grow into a
Our history, like that of so many other Indigenous leader fluent in multiple languages
nations, includes defiant adaptation for survival pur- and cultures. Maybe I’d help develop
poses. The remote little village where I spent my early ecotourism or bring new ideas that
years exists only because during the 1980s about a might allow us a future without vio-
dozen families, including my parents, began mov- lation of our forests and waters.
ing away from the oil-contaminated upriver town As I completed high school in
where they had lived. The new settlement of homes Seattle and worked my way through
was named Zábalo, for the smaller (and cleaner) river Brown University and into a graduate
nearby. My father and other elders grappled with new program at the University of Texas
strategies to protect our forests, our waters, and our at San Antonio, this multiple-worlds
way of life in the decades to come. coming-of-age was my life; tough
So when I was 10, a monolingual boy who’d never and lonely at times, but not quite
seen an airplane or a sidewalk, the elders—and my as jarring as it sounds. I had people

126 S T E WA R D S H I P
who loved and looked after me in the
U.S. My family embraced me every
time I returned to Zábalo. Today,
finally, I’m back on Cofán land at 37,
constructing a home with my wife,
Sadie, and our daughter, and com-
pleting an anthropology doctorate.
My work is in English, Spanish, and
A’ingae. I dream in all three.
What of our forest guardians pro-
gram? It cost about $400,000 a year
to run, with roughly half dedicated to
guardians’ wages, and around a
decade ago, the funding ran out. We’d
been supported by foreign donors. In
our experience, this is how philan-
thropy works: Support lasts until the
funders decide that they’ve backed
you long enough.
Which meant that although we
retained legal authority over a por-
tion of our homeland, we had lost
the most effective and assertive way
to watch for intruders. We began to
see new river pollution from illegal
small-scale mining. Commercial
hunters and fishermen started show-
ing up in places that were supposed
to be protected.
We’ve received other help here and
there. Some of us participate in a gov-
ernment program that discourages
deforestation by paying landholders
for not cutting their trees. I’m also a
board member of our Cofan Survival
Fund, which is an American nonprofit
and has received recent grants from
the North Dakota–based Azimuth
World Foundation for reassembling
a modest version of the guardians
program. The current funding will let
us train and mount a few patrols this
year, covering a small part of Cofán
territory, and provide small stipends.
And this is crucial for us: The
guardians will again be paid. If
the world wants truly sustainable
Translated from A’ingae:
My work is in English, Spanish, and A’ingae.
I dream in all three.
defense of its endangered forests and waters—not just
for our sake, but for the planet’s—then the protective
work of tribes like the Cofán needs to be recognized for
what it is: the hard, ongoing labor of people who must
feed their families and raise their children.
I’ve spent too much of my life resisting the Har-
monious Indigenous People Who Live and Think the
Same categorization. Our Cofán communities are com-
plicated, probably like yours. My own experience—
what I’ve learned from the elders who took the risk in
sending me to the U.S.—has taught me that the best
way I can help is to encourage greater mutual under-
standing and respect between outsiders and Cofán.
Sadie and I have a plan for that, in fact. We’re build-
ing a laboratory on an ancestral site we’ve picked out.
We want foreign scholars and Cofán working here
side by side, learning from each other, to produce
research that combines outside scientists’ scholarship
with botanical and cultural knowledge the A’i have
developed over generations. Ultimately, we hope, this
will become a place for new groups of wage-earning
guardians to board and train—plus, a state-recognized
hub for younger Cofán, who often don’t make it to
graduation in Ecuadorian high schools. The broad
focus of study we envision for everyone, of course: the
natural life around us and the Cofán language, with
the history and story it carries.
As the elders have told me all my life, without the
forest and A’ingae, our nation will no longer be Cofán.
Safeguarding both is now up to us. j
ECUADOR 127
On Cofán-managed
land, the Bermeja
River winds around
a patchwork of
polluted open pits
made by trespassers
who exploit these
ancestral lands to
illegally mine gold.
 S T E WA R D S H I P

Buryat Mongol elder

Erjen Khamaganova shares
how Mongolia draws
from Indigenous values
in protecting its land.

WORDS BY
ERJEN KHAMAGANOVA

P H OTO G R A P H S BY
KILIII YÜYAN
L A ST FA L L ,Mongolian herder
Bazar Losol led our small group of
elders through the Altai Mountains.
When the afternoon light bathed
the rocky cliffs, it revealed a hidden
world of petroglyphs depicting ibex,
MONGOLIA snakes, birds, suns, and moons. All
are revered as messengers, connect-
A S I A ing us to the heavens, the Earth, and
the underworld. The ancient beauty
of Bayan Undur, or “rich heights,”
mesmerized me. Yet a faint unease
NGM MAPS
 Herder Tumen
Ulzii Ivshintseren
sets up a ger, or
yurt, for guests in
the highland mead-
ows of Mongolia’s
Altai Mountains.
Mongolian nomads’
symbiotic relation-
ship with the land is
foundational to the
country’s conserva-
tion initiatives.

settled in. The scene felt incomplete.
Then Bazar stepped out of the
shadows. The intricate, shimmer-
ing patterns on his dark blue deel, a
traditional robe, seemed to mirror
the patterns etched in stone. In that
moment, I understood the source of
my restlessness: the absence of peo-
ple in this sacred place. Unlike the
Western view, which often excludes
people from landscapes for pro-
tection, our tradition emphasizes
relationships with nature. Bazar’s dignified posture
and his deep reverence for this place embody our
conservation philosophy: the unbreakable bond join-
ing human, nature, and culture. This connection is
also evident in the tireless work of Indigenous groups
who designated Bayan Undur (Mongolian transliter-
ation system used) as a community protected area.
Because of their dedication, these treasures remain
largely unspoiled.
This deep connection to our land fuels Mongolia’s
progressive conservation efforts. Three decades ago,
after the collapse of the socialist order, the country

131
returned to its Indigenous roots and adopted a pioneer-
ing plan to protect 30 percent of its land—long before
the United Nations endorsed a similar 30-by-30 target
in 2022, to safeguard 30 percent of the planet’s land and
water by 2030. Over the past few years, Mongolia has
dramatically expanded its protected areas—now cover-
ing about 21 percent of the land—positioning it among
world conservation leaders. The forces of globaliza-
tion affect Mongolia, no different from other countries,
and it faces formidable environmental challenges like
mining, overgrazing, and habitat loss. Yet Mongolians
hold a powerful asset. By embracing traditional values
132 S T E WA R D S H I P
of reciprocity, spiritual connection,
and respect for all life—values shared
by Indigenous peoples worldwide—
Mongolia can lead by example.
Bazar, our host and guide, holds
a revered position within the Elders
Council of the World Union of Indig-
enous Spiritual Practitioners, an
alliance of traditional knowledge
holders working together to protect
Mother Earth. We, a small group of
WUISP members, were embarking on

a pilgrimage to the land of the snow
leopard. In the breathtaking moun-
tains, we gathered for ceremonies to
consecrate WUISP’s highest honor.
This year, the elders chose a jade
sculpture we’ve named the “Tear of
the Snow Leopard” to represent our
collective gratitude to Rodney Jack-
son, an expert on the endangered
snow leopard and its ecosystems,
who has dedicated more than 40
years of his life to partnering with
Mongolia has
12 official state-
worshipped sacred
mountains, part of
the roughly one-fifth
of land that is pro-
tected. In the Altai
foothills, this safe-
guarded area, called
Burgasny Khundii
(Willow Valley), is
known for its large
ibex population.
communities and Indigenous peoples in all 12 coun-
tries the animal inhabits.
Photographer Kiliii Yüyan joined us on this pil-
grimage, his lens capturing the profound beauty and
spiritual significance of the journey. While some com-
munities hide their sacred practices, we believe now
is the time for openness. Sharing our ceremonies can
inspire critical reflection on humanity’s connection
to nature, challenge current approaches, and foster
new perspectives.
Buyanbadrakh Erdenetsogt—Buya for short—led
our ceremonies, acting as a mediator among humans,
MONGOLIA 133
 BUYANBADRAKH ERDENETSOGT,
SPIRITUAL PRACTITIONER

Translated from Mongolian:

‘The tradition of honoring sacred sites fosters
a deep connection to the land, offering the most
effective way to lovingly protect nature.’

spirits, and nature. Though anthropologists use

“shaman” (a word of Tungusic origin) to define this
phenomenon, in Mongolian culture, our traditional
belief system is called Boo murgel, which involves
communication with spirits, nature, and ancestors
for guidance and healing. We worship the Eternal Blue
Sky as our highest deity and Mother Earth as a source
of life. Despite influences from Buddhism, other reli-
gions, and atheism, Boo murgel remains an integral
part of Mongolian identity, particularly in nomadic
communities.
Buya, at 39 the youngest member of the WUISP’s
Council of Elders, directed our pilgrimage to the
heart of the snow leopard’s domain, seeking the
blessing needed for the jade miniature. Reaching the special ceremonies every four years.
road’s end, we abandoned our vehicles and clam- Amid the awe-inspiring landscape,
bered awkwardly onto horses. A challenging ascent Buya opened the sacred space with
was the final hurdle before an invocation of the local deity, the
Nomadic pastoralist the blessing ceremony. When guardian spirit of the mountain.
and leader Bazar we reached a plateau, we set We then united in prayer for the
Losol stands next
to petroglyphs at
up camp beneath the watch- well-being of all life, for peace and
Bayan Undur. The ful gaze of Sutai Khairkhan, a harmony. Our voices carried through
site gained pro- magnificent glacial peak and the crisp air, expressing our grati-
tected status in 2019 one of Mongolia’s 12 state- tude to Mother Earth and seeking
through collective
efforts by the worshipped mountains, which the continued benevolence of the
local community. the president honors with Eternal Blue Sky.

134 S T E WA R D S H I P
 Much to our astonishment, Buya
brought with him an unlikely con-
tribution: watermelons. This playful
offering aimed to charm the local
spirits, echoing the old Mongolian
expression “Baigalia argadah,”
which translates to “Coax nature.”
Even though the spirits typically
favor locally produced food—and
watermelons are not native to
Mongolia—Buya argued that this
unconventional gift was more than
appropriate, for the powerful spirits of the mountains
are sometimes like curious and mischievous children.
Perhaps they gazed with amusement upon the water-
melons tumbling down the Manhan cliffs the follow-
ing day, bursting over the white snow with green and
pink, covering the valley with seedy blessings.
Ceremonies are conservation. That is their pur-
pose and their power. Buya’s ceremony, and the deep
joy and bliss it evoked in all participants, demon-
strates this truth. Only by embracing place-based
Indigenous wisdom can we possibly hope to protect
our shared past and humanity’s shared future. j
MONGOLIA 135
 C U LT U R E

RISING
STARS Native filmmakers
have built a

ON THE thriving hub for

talent in Tulsa.

PRAIRIE
O K L A H OM A

W O R D S B Y TIM LANDES

Actors Paulina
Alexis (Alexis
Nakota Sioux),
D’Pharaoh Woon-
A-Tai (Oji Cree),
and the legend-
ary Wes Studi
(Cherokee) film
a scene for the
series Reservation
Dogs on location
in the Tulsa area.
IM’S MIDTOWN DINER
in Tulsa, Oklahoma, used
to be just the local greasy
spoon where I could get a
big waffle and a hot coffee
any day of the week. But
since appearing on FX’s
Peabody Award–winning
series Reservation Dogs, it’s become a bit
of a pilgrimage spot. (FX and National Geo-
PHOTO: SHANE BROWN, FX
graphic Partners are part of The Walt Disney
Company.) In one memorable scene, actors
Ethan Hawke and Kawennáhere Devery
Jacobs (Mohawk) sit across from each other
at a table a few feet from where I was dining.
“It brings a lot of people in,” my server said
of the show.
Co-created by the Tulsa-based showrun-
ner Sterlin Harjo (Muscogee, Seminole)
and Oscar-winning filmmaker Taika Waititi
(Māori), “Rez Dogs” tells the story of four Indig-
enous teenagers coming of age on a reservation
in northeast Oklahoma. After a local red-carpet
premiere, the series debuted in August 2021,
and then suddenly on my TV screen there
were Native kids I could have hung out with in
high school, in a neighborhood that could be
the one outside my window. It was authentic
and heartfelt and a world away from the ste-
reotypical depiction of Natives living in tipis
and riding horseback. Rez Dogs proved that
Native stories told by Native storytellers could
succeed on a pop-culture scale: Two months
later my social feeds were filled with images
of kids and teenagers dressed up as the show’s
characters for Halloween.
Most significant, the series sparked a
Native filmmaking boom, centered in Tulsa.
Fittingly, the city sits at the meeting point
of three nations—Cherokee, Muscogee, and
Osage. The show’s three seasons showcase
Oklahoma’s varied landscapes, from the green
Ozark hills and the rivers that flow through-
out the Cherokee Nation’s 7,000 square miles,
to the prairies in the central region, to the
Great Salt Plains in the north and the mesas
near the panhandle. Okmulgee, the Muscogee
Nation capital, stood in for the teens’ fictional
hometown of Okern.
Then there is Tulsa itself, a metropolis
of more than a million people, with an art
deco skyline that dates back to the early
1900s when the city was known as the “oil
capital of the world.” Some downtown loca-
tions subbed for Los Angeles in Rez Dogs.
They also show up in the Martin Scorsese
epic Killers of the Flower Moon, which
was largely filmed nearby on the Osage
Nation Reservation.
Harjo employed local crew, many of them
inexperienced at the time. He also inspired
other Indigenous creatives to come to town,
OKLAHOMA 137
including writer-director Erica Tremblay
(Seneca- Cayuga), who filmed the Sun-
dance favorite Fancy Dance throughout the
area with actor Lily Gladstone (NiMíiPuu,
Siksikaitsitapi). Gladstone, who was nomi-
nated for an Oscar for her role in Killers of the
Flower Moon, also appeared in Rez Dogs.
my tribe,
I N 2 0 2 2 , S E E I N G A N O P P O RT U N I T Y,
the Cherokee Nation, became the first in
the United States to launch a film incentive
program. The initiative provides financial
backing for the use of Indigenous cast and
crew, as well as film locations on the reserva-
tion. That same year, Cherokee Film opened
a 27,000-square-foot studio on the reservation
138 C U LT U R E
in Owasso, less than 15 minutes from Tulsa
International Airport. The soundstage, sit-
ting off the side of a highway, is a converted
indoor soccer facility. A second soundstage,
spanning 10,000 square feet, is being built
next door. In two years, the tribe has invested
more than $10 million in its film office and
incentive program.
Cherokee Film maintains an online database
of Native talent and crew with more than 2,000
verified listings. Among them is local Cherokee
filmmaker Jeremy Charles, who operates Pur-
suit Films, a production services provider for
local shoots and for tribes across the continent.
The Cherokee Film studio offers motion cap-
ture, mixed reality, and 3D capabilities. “There
 is no technology like this in the
region, much less available to Native
filmmakers,” Charles says. “Working
PHOTO: AUSTIN PARKER, CHEROKEE FILM STUDIOS; NGM MAPS
as a Native in the industry, I really
feel fortunate that Cherokee Film is
leading the way for Indian Country.”
There are more projects on the
horizon. Choctaw filmmaker Kyle
Kauwika Harris, who earned numer-
ous awards in 2017 for his Standing
Rock documentary, I Stand: The
Guardians of Water, filmed the crime
drama Out of Exile here in 2021, with
support from Pursuit Films. Harris
and Pursuit will team up again for
the action thriller Huntsman, set to
film in Oklahoma this summer. And
soon Harjo and Hawke will reunite
to shoot a pilot for FX, the Tulsa noir
The Sensitive Kind.
These days, I’m often detoured
around film sets as I drive around
town. Once, I had to go elsewhere for
a cup of coffee so Sylvester Stallone
could be filmed sipping an espresso
for the Paramount+ series Tulsa
King. Another time, I had to reroute
through downtown because the
actor Jesse Plemons was pretending
to escort a criminal out of a building
for Killers of the Flower Moon.
“Tulsa used to be a ghost town for
creatives, and now look at us: Every-
one wants to come here and be a part
of it,” Charles says. “The talent is
clearly here. You can fully book an
entire movie with 100 percent Native
talent. We’ve come a long way. Now
we have to do the work.” j
Land of Gold, a non-
Native movie about a
Punjabi American truck
driver, used state-of-
the-art production
facilities outside of
Tulsa founded by
Cherokee Film in 2022.
O N L O C AT I O N
IN O S A G E N AT I O N
U N I T E D S TAT E S
OKLAHOMA Tulsa
The Academy Award–nominated
Killers of the Flower Moon,
about the murders of Osage
people in the 1920s, was filmed
in and around Tulsa and the
Osage Nation Reservation.
Guided tours of filming loca-
tions begin at the Tall Chief
Theater in Fairfax, an hour
northwest of Tulsa. (Reserve
at tallchieftheater.com/take-
action.) Developed by a tribal
member, the late Joe Conner,
and now led by his widow, Carol,
the tour conveys Osage history
and culture at stops that include
the historic Masonic lodge.
For self-guided tours, begin
your exploration at the Osage
Nation Museum in Pawhuska.
About an hour north of Tulsa,
Pawhuska is the capital of the
Osage Nation.
In addition to visiting film
locations, stop at some of the
Native-owned small businesses
in town, such as Saucy Calf, a
new Native food restaurant from
Osage citizens Asa Cunningham
Concha and Jamison Concha.
Big Rain Gallery focuses on
Native art, founded by Osage
citizens Addie Roanhorse and
Jill Jones. The tribe offers lodg-
ing at the nearby Osage Casino.
Respect the tribe’s wishes and
don’t visit Grayhorse Cemetery,
where the victims of the “Reign
of Terror” are buried. For more
insight, visit osageculture.com.
OKLAHOMA 139
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